Category Archives: Gunnas-Masters

Today – Helen Thomas

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I was armoured up. I had put a load of washing on. Tick. I was wearing my running gear, to ensure that I would go for a run later. Tick. The fear of becoming one of those people who wear active wear but who don’t actually engage in strenuous physical activity would far outweigh the lack of motivation to run. I had set myself up at the kitchen table surrounded by teetering piles of paper – work, life admin, to do lists. Excellent. Safe and secure. Do as I have always done. Feel nice and productive. Missed out on Gunnas. Probably a good thing as, really, I have so much to do. Just look around me. Then ping. An email from Dev ‘YES!! SICK PERSON!!!! COME! 10am’. Safety extinguished. A pause in time, fear pushes through. The excuses begin immediately. Oh, I’ll be late. I’m not ready. I’m not prepared. Ping. A text message this time ‘JUMP IN THE CAR’. Fuck it. I defiantly refuse to change out of my active wear and dismiss my piles of paper, mentally torching them as I lock the front door behind me. I do as invited. What a gift.

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Why? – Jane Rathdowne

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.


Why?
Hurt, mistrust, deflated.
Am I not good enough?
Why do you speak that way?
Alcohol fueled tirade.
“Fuck facebook,fucking computer, fucking book, your father is a cunt, blah, blah, blah”
Please don’t talk that way
“Fucking fat arse, fucking do gooder, fucking ballet, blah, bla, blah”
I hope you fall asleep soon so I can sleep….this is hell….
“Go to fucking hell!”
I am already there!
What am I doing putting up with this?
Care, do the right thing, can not leave…
He has a problem.. Depression.. Been a tough time.
“Who are you fucking? Is there another bloke?”
Why, why?
Cover up, pretend, no one can know.
Shame, hurt,mentally beaten, feel physical pain.
Heartbroken.
Despair.
I need a way out!

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The Ring – Sok Leng

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I wear a wedding band.

I’m married, but that’s another story.

I wear a wedding band that belonged to my paternal grandmother. It’s thin and heavy for its size. I think it’s platinum. There are some engravings that mark some squares and then rectangles but they’re worn and barely recognisable. It’s loose on my finger, so I keep it in place with my engagement ring.

I wear her wedding ring now, not as a symbol of how her marriage was or ended up being, but in recognition of all that I shared with her. When I was little I would crawl into her bed as soon as I woke. We would chat in a sing-songy broken English and there were crazy hand gestures.

We understood each other perfectly.

She didn’t tell me her stories. Why bring up the past? It was over, she said.

She endured a lot, I’ve been told. She was displaced during the Second World War and separated from her husband. She didn’t even know if he was alive. She had a toddler and a mother-in-law in tow during the great famine in rural China. She was accused of being a beggar and a drain on family resources.

You’re not a high priority in the family when your husband isn’t around.

She carried my father on her back across a river when he was sick. She picked willow leaves to boil for food when there was nothing else. And she drove a cattle-drawn cart which held the heavy wooden coffin of her mother-in-law.

She was tiny, my grandmother. But only in height.

I know that ring was on her finger as she struggled daily on her tiny crumpled bound feet. Her toes were broken and curled under foot. She marvelled at her only granddaughter’s growing feet and would laugh and shake her head as they headed for size 10.

I know that ring was on her finger as she followed her only child to a new country. When she wrote to her only sister and told her that this would be the last letter. That she was leaving more than just her country behind her.

I know that ring was on her finger as she continued to struggle every day, but went to English classes and to the Vic market to buy me trinkets and polka-dotted windcheaters that I never wore.

I wear her ring, but I don’t really need a reminder.

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Before ancient rocks – Jen

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a girl who glittered and sparkled. She sang, twirled, beamed and glowed. She played, she laughed, she took risks and was always ready for adventure. She was in control of her life and knew her worth. She felt joy and gratitude and full of possibility. Her heart was strong and kind and generous. Sometimes she felt sad. But the sadness was real and raw and honest and vulnerable. She had fears but they didn’t control her. She had worries but they were concrete and could be tackled head on and solved. And when she dreamed under the stars, her vision of the years ahead was clear and wondrous.

Every day she soared. She took risks. She was a leader. She stuck her neck out. It never occurred to her these things might be scary. She just knew she could do them. She knew she could leap and the net would be there. She never worried the branch might break because she knew her wings would do what they needed to do.

One day things started to change. A Big Challenge came her way. It lasted seven years. And although she did everything she could, it wasn’t enough. She worried more. She feared more. She thought about how other people would judge her. She wasn’t enough. She wondered if she still had wings. Could she feel them? No. Could she see them? No. She stuck the Big Challenge out and did everything she was supposed to do, but not as well as she thought she should. So she began to trickle away.

Because of that life was different. The pizazz, the sparkle, the glitter, they were all gone. She forgot she had ever had wings. And then Big Challenge Number 2 came along. Oddly, it also lasted seven years. Again she did her best but it didn’t feel enough. The stakes were higher than they had ever been but she felt like she failed. She had lost control. There were no wings and no net.

And because of that she tried to control anything she could. She tried to control all.the.little.things because she couldn’t control the big things. She couldn’t nurture herself and her wings were long-forgotten. Instead she worried about dust on the floor and crumbs on the bench. The dirty toilet and the leaning towers of laundry. All she could see were the little things that didn’t matter but felt important. Why did they feel important? Because they were in her control.

Until finally she said ‘FUCK THIS’. She bowed before ancient rocks. She felt the warmth of the sun on rocks so old her head hurt thinking about it. And she forgave herself. She decided: from now on my life is about wings, not crumbs. She knew what mattered and she knew what she needed to do. So she did it.

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Let the (Corporate) games begin – Mary McConnell

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

They weren’t quite sure what Senior HR Executive Barbara Colt had just said.  She had been striding animatedly from side to side on the “World Summit” stage in her serious navy Pantsuit, crisp white shirt and ‘Madonna Mike’ looking enthusiastic.  Something about ‘new Global focus’ and ‘Talent Management’ had registered, but sitting obediently shoulder to shoulder rubbing suits, uncomfortably cold in the enormous ballroom, mesmerised by her perky powerpoint slide of bright geometrics – the local Sales team, who occupied the entire back row, had slowly begun to register.
Steve whispered to Sophie “see the pea shape in the middle of the slide?.”  Sophie could see the pea – it had been more like a pink grapefruit originally, then with a powerpoint ‘whoosh’ it had become an orange, before unceremoniously morphing into a green pea surrounded by larger encroaching circles during Barbara’s ‘DCM’ section of her presentation:  ‘Directional Career Management.’  “That’s our department” Steve hoarsely whispered, barely containing his distress. Sophie had already joined the dots.  At best, they would now be an irritant like in the ‘princess and the pea’ – giving all the Global divisions they were now subservient to the shits while simultaneously having to provide them with resources and knowledge.  At worst  –hello Centrelink.  It made winning her current Deal even more critical – her job may depend on it.  Frank – not the brightest crayon  –  had also finally cottoned on: “DCM – don’t come Monday” they mean, he cracked. Nobody in the back row laughed.
Sophie checked out the Executive panel sitting uncomfortably upright in their line of chairs stage right.  They were taking in the Barbara show.  His glossy hair and visage caught under a stray spotlight, Global Director of Sales, Andy O’Connell looked pleased with himself in a smug sort of way.  Still (relatively) young, Andy’s, rise had been (relatively) meteoric, and the global move had totally played – unexpectedly – into his deeply ambitious hand.  Much to almost everyone in the know’s surprise –  Andy’s (not so) secret affair with Marketing Director Sandra – sitting primly on the opposite end of the Executive row – had not appeared to diminish either’s career prospects.  Apparently not even being caught with your pants down in the staff kitchen in the early evening could dent one’s career trajectory.  This state of affairs both confused and angered Sophie – and her feelings were reflected in the look on the face of Operations Director Paul Berry – sitting on Andy’s left.  As hard as Paul had worked, he found himself passed over as a classified dinosaur in this brave new world.  The rules had changed and no-one had enlightened him on the new playbook.  Even his nemesis David Warren – Director of Platforms – seemed to display a rare irritation with the ‘new breed’ of directors.  He sat on the Executive row looking impervious and above the others.  But David, was a force to be reckoned with, with a history spoken about in hushed tones over private coffee meeting, and a Boardroom game unsurpassed.  It had been said that he had been instrumental in the demise of the most recent CEO.  Game on, Sophie thought to herself…
Kind Regards

 

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Weekend in Portbou – Deb Nicholson

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

We were staying on the Mediterranean coast right on the border of Spain and France. Catalan country. Wildly beautiful, rugged and tamed. Hot, lazy days at the beach.. Snorkelling, swimming, napping and people watching. This was not Nice or Cannes, there were families and ordinary folks doing ordinary stuff, whilst wearing speedos and espadrilles. Eating local tomatoes and ham in crunchy bread. Dinner at a beachside restaurant. Shit food but beer in bucket sized glasses and cheap, not nasty wine.

We were staying at a hotel, which could only be described as quirky. Run by two old women, daughters of the original owner, a Catalan freedom fighter. No air conditioning but we did have a private terrace dripping with raucous red, orange and purple bougainvillea. We dragged the mattress onto the terrace and after hilarious drunken sex, flaked it. At some point in the early hours we dragged the mattress indoors out of the rain. In the morning we went to retrieve our towels from the terrace wall, and wondered who had hung a towel up on the bathroom window facing the terrace. Hungover, it took a moment for it to sink in that this was the window of the room next door. Looking onto our “private” terrace. We kept our eyes down in the breakfast room, suppressing giggles and wondering which of our breakfast companions were our neighbours from the night before.

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Derrick’s Walk To Band Practise – Lleyton Trainer

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there a man named Derrick, his eyes were black as pits and his hair dyed a strange silvery colour. Derrick was a punk, or at least, that’s what he liked to think of himself. He wore mostly black clothes, like he was right at that moment, with a leather jacket to look even cooler. His current black shirt has large white letters imprinted on the front spelling “Green Day”, his favourite punk band. In the right pocket of his black jeans, a chain swung merrily as he walked, the other end reaching across to his back left pocket. Every day, Derrick walked along the street to band practise, ignoring the strange looks people gave him. One day though, he was the one giving strange looks. A little girl had accidentally let go of a red balloon she had been carrying and was now crying, making an awful racquet as her mother attempted to give comfort. But it was not the girl that was strange.
As the red balloon floated into the sky, Derrick saw a pair of men making out on an electric pole. What was worse was that they were dressed as tradies and clearly weren’t doing their job. Because of that, Derrick shouted “DO YOUR JOB YOU FUCKING FAGGOTS!”
The two men broke apart and glared at Derrick, and the little girls’ mother shot Derrick an angry look, but Derrick didn’t care; he was a punk after all. The tradies started shouting abuse at Derrick (the mother now walking her child away as quickly as possible), and because of that, Derrick decided to ignore the abuse and keep walking, until finally he arrived at band practise, where he and his friends played “You Should Have Killed Me When You Had The Chance” by A Day To Remember (Derrick was doing the screamo part)
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GUNNAS PROMPT EXERCISE – Antonia Chaffey  

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

The pic I was given was of a woman in ‘50s shorts and shirt, nice heeled shoes, semi squatting, holding a piece of cord attached to a dead lobster (?) the other hand held something I couldn’t see due to photocopy quality. I now see it’s a glass of something…

The text: Cushioning Effect.

  1. “Once upon a time there was”

…A P.A. (Procrastinating/Practicing Artist/Pain in the Arse) who kept on and on at herself, no doubt bored her remaining friends to tears, and drove her remaining family crazy because all she could say was, “My life is OVER!” (being 67 ‘n all in the mix)

So, the more she said this to herself the more she began to believe it. So much so that she then began to plan her exit from this world.

It became tedious. Very tedious. The PA soon became aware that the ‘overness’ of her life had become an excuse for inertia.

(here I insert that I made a rule to self: don’t top yourself whilst the son is still alive…unless absolutely necessary)

  1. “Every day”

…when the bell rang, PA would run outside and play. Anything but work on her new piece. Soon enough that pesky script would re-emerge.

Only this time the words “who cares, nobody gives a shit, It’s all irrelevant anyway!”

  1. “One day”

…the shit really hit the fan. Soon it was a dawning realisation that NOTHING would change if she kept on that mouse wheel. It was like sitting on a dead lobster. Ref to text

Through some random turn of events, PA began to pursue a more anarchistic line of work: Turning dumped domestic items into works of art by inscribing notes on the human condition upon them (spray paint) taking photos of it and posting on social media, as well as amongst my art community.

It somehow became a ‘hit’….amongst the dog walkers, the street painters, and then my good neighbour, who said I should publish these pics.

  1. “Because of that”

…PA started a notebook of ‘ideas’ in readiness for the random discovery of discarded domestic items to write on.

The next step would be a pictures blog on her existing website (“serious art”)

But still those nagging little shits, DOUBT and SELF DENIGRATION IM NOT REPRESENTED BY A PRESTIGIOUS GALLERY kept popping up.

This ratbag factor became a ‘cushioning effect’

  1. “And, because of that”

…well, co-incidentally one of my street dump texts, a friend who follows CD sent me the comment re my ‘sofa so good’ piece. ( Hence the notice of the classes). I’ve edited that last bit as its obvious. Except to say I need to commit..EXERCISE

6”Until Finally”

DO IT!! (was it Jerry Rubin,….or…in the 60s who wrote that book, DO IT)

Immediately the ideas fell into place:

Get a booklet of street art printed. Text added

Write re the art scene…(eeew;;;;mmmnfnelwfawjej)

That’s the rant. That’s the struggle.

Artists don’t need to deal with the shit that the scene pumps out. They just need to do the work…and then kill themselves. Selves.   Selves.

Oops… I wasn’t going to mentions suicide again. But I did. And that’s a subject I am deeply interested in, as in CHOICE. When it comes to the ‘departure room’ as Clive James called it.

And, I didn’t even mention my dinner with Clive.

He came to my house for dinner. Ive written about dat.
tbc.

 

 

 

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The Don, The Prof, Bulldog & Smike – Debbie Brady

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

The pain was unbearable; Louis’ tormented mind couldn’t be relieved of the certainty that he was a failure, that the business would go broke, and he would let everyone down. He felt so many depended on him, his dear wife Golda, his four children, and the great friends he had shared so many hopes and dreams with; the unfulfilled wish to become the artist he wanted to be, and the pressure from the family to put all his efforts into the family cigar & cigarette factory, especially when he heard the rumour that the other company in Melbourne was going to bring his business down by circulating information that Snider & Abrahams products were laced with opium.

They had met at the National Gallery School; Louis was there in 1871-2 and again in 1879-84. All shared a vocation too powerful to ignore. They would go on to break new ground artistically and launch Australia’s impressionist era, influencing many artists to come. Louis Abrahams was a dapper dresser, hence his title ‘The Don’. Fred McCubbin tended to philosophise, and was known as ‘The Prof’. Tom Roberts was nicknamed ‘Bulldog’ because of his tenacious personality, he often drew himself as a bulldog. Arthur Streeton was known as ‘Smike’ after a Dickens character in Nicholas Nickelby, who shared Streeton’s slight physique. Their friendship extended beyond the classroom, they started painting outdoors and sharing meals where they read their favourite poems and literary extracts, camping out to paint in the Box Hill bush, or setting up easels at the beach at Mentone, or the countryside outside Geelong. Louis was expected to work in the family business, so he couldn’t work on his painting as much as he’d like and saw the others improve and extend themselves. He couldn’t match their talent but he could at least support them by supplying canvases and materials when they couldn’t afford to buy them, and he could buy paintings from them. He sat for hours as artists’ model, enjoying the time and the mateship. As their recognition grew, Louis was left behind, the nameless figure represented in paintings such as McCubbin’s prophetically titled ‘Down on his Luck’.
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Story – Julia Irwin

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Once upon a time there was a “four legs” called Eccles.
He’d spent so long in jail he had no idea what he’d done wrong.
But one day his sentence ended and a family of “two legs” came and collected him from his cold, damp concrete cell.
Eccles could barely contain his excitement, wagging his tail and hanging his tongue out, willing his knew family to love him.
But he became a little concerned when the youngest “two legs” said they were changing his name to Scruffy – how undignified!
When the oldest two legs said, “Scruffy, you’re going to be an outside dog” and he saw the concrete backyard with nothing but a smelly old sleeping bag to lie on, his heart sunk. He’d gone from one jail to another.
Eccles tried to make the most of it, hoping the younger “two legs” might at least come out to play but they spent all their time sitting inside looking at screens.
Sometimes he’d scratch the door to remind them he was there but the only time his family came outside was to give him a clip around the ears.
Every day when the two legs went off to school or work, Eccles would cry out to the neighbours to rescue him.  Eventually, exhausted, he’d fall asleep.
One day, one of the smaller “two legs'” friends left the side gate open.
Eccles grabbed the chance to escape.
First he went looking for some of the “four legs” he’d heard in neighbouring backyards but soon realised they too were living behind bars – or at least very high fences.
Unsure what to do next, Eccles sniffed at the trees along the side of the road to catch up on the local news and find out what other “four legs” were up to.
He found out most of them were headed to a place called the lake.
Eccles followed the scent and there it was – water as far as the eye could see and more “two legs” and “four legs” than he could poke a stick at.
Wagging his tail enthusiastically Eccles bounded up to a handsome brindle “four legs” and athletic “two legs”, who was carrying a long stick with a tennis ball at the end.
Deciding to start the game, Eccles grabbed the ball between his teeth.
He was pleased when “two legs” raised the stick high in the air as if ready to play.
Thwack! Down it came hard across Eccles’ rump.
“Get out of here ya mongrel!” The two legs shouted while the brindle eyed Eccles sympathetically.
Tail between his legs, Eccles scampered to safety.
Heart still pumping hard, he picked up a beautiful scent – then he saw her. She was all fluffy and sweet in her black and white coat.
Eccles ran up to her, sniffing her tentatively.
She sniffed back then once he’d gained her concent, he jumped up on her from behind.
Thump! “Two legs” boot in the stomach sure hurt more than that plastic stick the other “two legs” hit him with.
With a yelp, Eccles scampered away.
He was starting to realise he couldn’t survive freedom and reluctantly headed back to his miserable home.
Following his nose, he was on the home stretch when he heard brakes squeal. A large, hairy “two legs” jumped out of a ute.
Arm stretched out, the “two legs” held out a meaty treat.
Thinking he was about to be rescued, Eccles ran towards the outstretched arm.
But before he could reach the treat, the “two legs” grabbed him by the collar and threw him into a cage in the back of the ute.
Before he knew it, Eccles was back in jail – the same jail where he’d spent most of his life.
Cowering in a corner, all hope gone, he never made the effort to wag his tail or jump up on the bars when ” two legs” came looking for a new family member.
Until finally, one day a “two legs” who looked even sadder than the way Eccles was feeling came to visit.
The “two legs” was recently widowed and was looking for a four legged companion to help get him out of the house.
He called out to Eccles who slowly walked over and gave the “two legs” a lick on the hand through the bars to cheer him up.
“Would you like to come home with me?” asked the two legs.
At last! This was the beginning of the life Eccles had only dreamed of.
Sleep-ins at the end of “two legs'” bed, ball games, liver treats and best of all – romantic walks around the lake.
The End

 

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