Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

My friends say that I’m unlucky when it comes to travelling. My luggage got lost at Vancouver airport. I caught a virus in Fiji and was hospitalised for my first four days in country. Then there wasthat time when I got chased out of the ghetto in Miami when I became separated from my mates and risked hitching a ride with a stranger to get away. Let’s see, what else? I ran over my next door neighbour’s dog in Samoa, but to be fair he was on his last legs anyway… But I’d have to say my top two ‘unlucky’ stories can’t really lead into any funny anecdotes for my new comedy show. They were however, two massive events that have had a big impact on my life.

In 2006 I was working in Fiji as a Cricket Development Officer; my dream job in an island paradise! I’d been in country for around three months, when my house mates (other Aussie volunteers) and I had a house visit by our in-country manager late at night. We were informed that there may be a Military Coup in the next few days. The Coup had been spoken about in each of our workplaces, however our local Fijian counterparts guaranteed us that it was all talk and nothing was going to happen. So we weren’t sure how to take things. Our in-country manager ensured us that everything would be fine, however to be cautious, we should pack a small bag with us to work that included our passport and anything else important just in case.

A few days had passed and our work colleagues were starting to make fun of our ‘Emergency bags’. We all felt a bit embarrassed bringing them to work to be honest, and some of the Aussie’s didn’t even bother.

Then on the morning of Tuesday the 5th of December, I was in the middle of a cricket pitch umpiring a practise match with the Fijian under 15 boys team. My boss was on the sidelines and he called me over. Our in-country manager had informed all Australian volunteers that we needed to pack our bags and meet at a church in two hours’ time. I was embarrassed to leave, especially because no one else was leaving? But my boss said that it was ok and ordered me a taxi to go home and pack.

“Miss! Miss! Where you going? We still play cricket Miss! You come back?” “Yes” I replied, “I just have to leave for a little bit, but I’ll be back”. As my taxi drove off, I saw a dozen of the boys chasing the taxi waving and smiling, they were all so happy, but I couldn’t help but feel sad.

At 2pm, all of the volunteers had met at the church where two buses were waiting for us. We’d been told that it was just precautionary to get us on the other side of the island for a few days and once things had settled down, we would all go back to our homes, our jobs and our lives in Fiji.

Free accommodation in a resort for a few days all of which was funded by the Australian Government; you bloody beauty! Half way across the island an official announcement interrupted the radio broadcast; it was the Military’s Commander Bainimarama. The military had officially taken over the government, two hours after we had evacuated the capital of Suva. We weren’t going to be enjoying a few days at a resort anymore, we were now flying home to Australia on the next available flight.

Unfortunately not all of us were able to return to Fiji and go back to work, some of us were reassigned to different countries. I was reassigned to Samoa around six months later. I’d been in Samoa now for two years. I stayed on after my 12 month volunteer position had finished and continued to work at Samoa Cricket as the General Manager. I absolutely loved it here; my job, the people, the place, it was an unbelievable experience. I did however believe that it was time for my next challenge, so was heading back home to Australia in one month’s time.

It was just before 7am in the morning and I felt another earthquake, but this one was stronger than usual. My bedside table rattled and the picture frames on my cupboard fell to the floor, smashing glass everywhere. I jumped out of my bed as the earthquake grew stronger and continued to rumble throughout our village. I ran out to the hallway, where I was met by my two house mates, each of us as terrified as the other. We ran towards the front door as I grabbed my keys and headed straight for the Ute. The ground beneath us continued to shake as though it would fall apart at any minute, sucking us into the bottomless depths of earth.

We drove out of our village and up the mountain as hundreds of kids laughed and skipped along the shaking ground on their way to school, as if it were a fun game. We screamed at them to run up the mountain or jump in the Ute, but instead they laughed at the panic and urgency in our eye as they continued to skip along the path.

The earthquake lasted nearly one whole minute, which seemed like a lifetime compared to the previous earthquakes we’d experienced over the last month that mostly lasted 2-3 seconds. As we met with the other Australian volunteers at our meeting point, ensuring each and every one of us was accounted for, the Samoans next door were laughing loudly as they headed to the bus stop and down to the town centre along the coastline. “Haha… silly palagi’s!” (Foreigners)

After 15 minutes, we received notification that a tsunami had hit the other side of the island. We froze. Tears overwhelmed each and every one of us and we quickly tried to think of anyone that may have been on that side of the island at that moment. It wasn’t long until the phone lines were down.

Crashed. No contact within the island and no contact with our families back home in Australia.

We tuned into local radio stations to find out what was going on but there was no information on the tsunami. BBC radio had more information on the tsunami than the local Samoan radio stations, but they knew very little other than a tsunami had hit the popular tourist destination of Lalumanu and other beaches.

More than 189 people died in the 2009 Samoan tsunami. Once again, we were the lucky ones.

Bobby Macumber
Comedian / MC
E: bobby@bobbymacumber.com
W: www.bobbymacumber.com

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

There is a half eaten frittata sitting on a ‘70’s era plate within twenty centimetres from me. Empty coffee cups also in a vintage style are strewn across the table. The salad plates have been cleared, as have the napkins, one of which I have been writing my notes on. I forgot paper. At a writing master class.

It’s called the “Gunnas Master Class” and it’s with Catherine Deveny who has just instructed us to write five minutes non-stop.

WE ARE NOT ALLOWED TO STOP.

In her introduction to the task she says, “write about anything, just don’t stop, write that Catherine Deveny is fatter in real life than you thought.“

She actually lifted up her skirt to show us her strong legs from running eight – ten kilometres per day. They are strong. It reminded me of the time Mirka Mora lifted her dress over her head at the launch for a new French bubbles at Madam Brussels in Bourke St. Mirka then lifted the bottle above her head and poured the fizz all over herself.

What joy and irreverence she and Catherine share.

So, back to the table.

There are 20 of us in this master class. Two Baptist ministers; a management consultant; a musician; a comedian; a lady with Multiple Sclerosis who spilt water from the stainless steel jug and declared “It’s the MS”; another woman has cancer and I am obsessed with her jumper. There’s writers of music, poetry, fiction and non. I’d never heard of flash fiction or dental drafts but am willing to give both a try.

We students are a rabble bunch.

I am one of two blondes. There is one male. He’s an older gentleman whose family gave him the class as a gift. We all concur that was a lovely thing to do. He didn’t really seem to know why it was gifted to him. He works in finance by day.

At the beginning of the class, we each have to get to know the person next to us and introduce them. The usual type of thing you do in a training course.

This one is different.

Catherine uses each person’s story and ideas about what they think they would like to get out of the class as an impetus for all of us to learn. She’s sharp and hones in on each individual with remarkable ease.

I tell the class of strangers that I am scared. That the thing I need out of this course is to be brave.

Now, with 30 seconds to go of the five minutes of non-stop writing, I’ve not come up for breath. Lunch must be beckoning most people, though I’m still not hungry.

We stop.

Next task – to write for ten minutes – this time we are allowed to take our time, “stare into space if you like,” Catherine says.

I look back to the table again.

The rabble bunch has their eyes down, writing.

I don’t want to be a voyeur but I’m interested to look around and just watch everyone scribbling away in note pads and tapping on laptops.

There are four of us on laptops. “Don’t go on the internet” Catherine says.

I haven’t got the Wi-Fi password but wouldn’t go on the Internet right now anyway. I am honestly inspired by this process this far.

I’ve learned so much. Or actually so much of what I have known to be true has been reinforced, solidified to truth.

In the introductions. my partner, Cindy, a remarkably strong and spiritual woman with gorgeously grey hair in a high bun says that I am ”a woman who has achieved so much in her career.”

Cindy says that I am in a transition phase, and she’s right.

The transition is to be truly brave and honest, by doing what is best for me.

My creativity has manifested itself in beautiful things, but not for me, for others.

The creative process drives me ‘til my brain, body and soul cannot take it anymore.

The beautiful things have been counter-balanced by ugliness. Self-inflicted pain. Loss. Devastation.

And so, back to the table.

With two minutes to go everyone is again writing with gusto. Not many are looking up and around like me. The lady with MS lets out a big breath, her lips vibrating like a baby finding its lips.

Today, many of us are further on our way to finding our feet as writers.

**********

God Disease, 1901 

Once upon a time there was a young lady afflicted with God Disease.

God disease is a condition that afflicts mostly women in their early twenties. They believe that God is a disease that infiltrates the body and mind and takes over one’s life.

Symptoms that present themselves in people affected by God Disease are the following:

• Having complete and utter disregard for God, religion and all it stands for
• Denouncing teachings and teachers of the Church
• Burning bibles
• In extreme cases of God disease, women will flout all kinds of norms in society

In the case of Miriam, 22, from Camberwell in Melbourne’s East, she was afflicted by one of the most serious cases of God Disease ever seen.

Having first exhibited the initial symptoms that included a covert operation to find as many bibles in Camberwell and make a bonfire of them, she was compelled to travel to Africa on her own by ship and work in the kitchens for the crew of sailors.

She allowed herself to be regularly serviced by the seamen.

Upon arrival in Africa she lived with a local tribe and befriended a lioness. The lioness gave birth to a small cub that she adopted and took back with her to Camberwell in a small wooden box. Back on the ship, she worked again in the kitchen which allowed her to feed the cub with left overs from the sailors meals

Upon return to Camberwell, every day she would walk the cub up Burke Road. Flaunting the rules of society, she dressed in risqué clothing that bared her shoulders and included a ridiculous hat with a fluffy pom-pom on the top.

Each day she would stop at her favourite teahouse that was run by an eccentric old couple, the female of which was also afflicted with God Disease. As such, she was allowed to take her tea and sandwiches inside while the cub (named Roger), would sit on her lap, occasionally sharing some of the lunch with Miriam as she stroked his silky coat.

One day, already exposing her décolletage, and in the middle of her daily sojourn to the teahouse. Miriam also exposed her ankle and, shockingly, her knee and under petticoat.

No one could believe such an event. Men gaped and women gasped in horror.

In response, Miriam simply fed Roger the last of her chicken and shallot sandwich and powdered her nose.

Because of that, one woman, Betsy Pie, a staunch and devout Christian, took it upon herself to let the local Minister of the local church know exactly what was going on well with in distance of their Parish.

And so, the bespectacled, gangly Minister took himself after Church one day to the teahouse to see what all the fuss was about.

Upon seeing Miriam’s milky white skin and the way she nonchalantly and elegantly chewed her points of sandwich, he was quite stirred.

And because of that, he stood still in the street, mesmerised also by the colourful and elaborate hat upon her auburn curls.

Betsy Pie had ensured she would be there to witness what would almost certainly be an attempted exorcism of the mad woman. She had bought with her a throng of fellow lady parishioners.

The gaggle of ladies stared and stared at the Minister as he gazed and gazed at Miram until finally, Roger let out a meow-like growl.

The Minister came to his senses as if out of a stupor.

The women shrieked in horror.

Miriam simply paid for her luncheon, made her goodbyes to the owners, put Roger on his lead and walked out back onto Burke Road in the sunshine.

Twitter: @_amanda_jane

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Love won today, which let’s face it is fucking brilliant! I’m excited that everybody I love is free to love whoever they want. Love is awesome. I love! I am loved!

But I am also un-loveable. And there’s the thing that’s still missing for me. With the right to love, can we also have the right not to love or be loved? You see, we are out there, people like me, looking just like everybody else but carrying a dark and shameful secret. Sort of like serial killers. Or Scrapbookers.

The serial killers know where the bodies are hidden, the Scrapbookers know that there isn’t really a “reason for everything” and we know that we are defying the laws of society – “family is everything”, “nobody can love you like your family can”, “Like and Share if you have the BEST DAD EVER!”.

Dev gave everyone a great piece of advice today – “write like your parents are dead!”. And right up until that moment I’d rued the fact that I became an orphan seemingly too late in life to take full advantage of the fact that I had nobody left to disappoint.

I was wrong. Here, hold my beer while I do this…

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was no way to explain. There was no-one to hold on my knee, against my breast, to read stories to. It didn’t matter that all I had was the present moment. Under the umbrella of now I could cope with my empty embrace. Under my umbrella was the theatre of me. I costumed my dreams in spite of the world around me. I wore vintage underwear as outer-wear and I answered to no-one. I went where there was no-one to call my name. Certainly no soft endearments for this vandal. I had destroyed everything with my lapse of attention as surely as if I’d done it on purpose. 

On the other side of the world I was anonymous. Every day I packed an old picnic basket with heavy books and rampaged my way around London. Going nowhere, just riding the grey veins of the tube for something to do. The weight of the basket an anchor to the world. Lugging it around like a babies coffin gave me something to do with my toddler-free hands. It was my morbid task to manoeuvre through the grey strangers in that grey city while I avoided myself.

One day, I began slamming the heavy basket into the bodies that milled past me in the hall of Kings Cross station. They all apologised to me yet it was me who was violently charging through the crowd! Whacking myself past the grey strangers who kept going their own ways. “Sorry.” Excuse me”. “Pardon.” They were apologising for my clumsy and angry invasion of their space! Because of this I knew that I was invisible insignificant inconsolable. These London people did not see me, or feel my great lump of a picnic basket as I barged my way mercilessly through their midst. Their automatic apologies confirmed that I had no place there.

And because of that I began to change the contents of my basket, a little at a time. Instead of a book of poems by Pablo Neruda I inserted a blank exercise book. A recipe book was swapped for a box of pencils. In the theatre of me I began to play at writing. Just doodling so I didn’t have to meet the eyes of anyone. Until finally I found some shelter in those pages as words queued up and out. I was immune to the empty apologies and cradled the basket like my lost son.

“PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” I’ve been hiding in London. DING DONG DELL, PUSSY IS IN THE WELL. I didn’t watch him every second.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I am a creature of connection and creativity. These are the two things that light my desire, kindle my passion, make me feel alive. Connection is love. I have made connection my priority, not just in the last five years, because to be honest, I have always valued relationships. They have been front and centre since I started school. Once I forge a connection I like to keep the connection. There are not many connections that have been broken. Only two good friendships come to mind out of forty years of friendships. Pretty good strike rate. I like to nurture my friendships because I take great joy in other people and how they navigate their time on this earth.

If you are wondering what cancer has done to my life think about this: it changes everything and it changes nothing. Cruelly, I have had the fear of leaving this incredible planet and my beautiful family inserted a lot earlier in my than most. I have experienced a highly medicalised five years, in which I am on first name basis with a host of oncology professionals. I have reported for weekly chemo for large chunks of years, three weekly visits in between the chemo for targeted therapy and submitted myself to the assault of treatments and the emotional agony of waiting for scan results. I have handed my body to surgeons to cut and insert and remove body parts. I have felt my zest ebb from my soul as the chemo struck hard at both the healthy and cancerous cells in my small body. My body that has suffered so much. Then there is the losing and continual rebuilding of my sense of self. It is the battle to remain optimistic and not frightened by the knowledge that eventually my body will betray me and there will be no more introduced chemical weapons that can keep my body from turning on itself. It has prematurely aged me through the drugs that are the panacea, creating pangs and pains and aches and damage that may never be repaired.

All of this is worth it a million times over when it allows me to be here for longer with the people that matter most. The connections. The family. The friends. The love of my life. The small babies made inside my belly who grow into beautiful children, the ones that help keep me here. The same belly that expanded in swollen pregnancy now is the same belly that swells with cancerous lumps. How your body can create life and create death is inconceivable. Yet…here I am, with my hands on the keyboard, listening to wonderful music, drinking red wine and laughing about it all. I have already won. I am here. I am still here. This is why cancer has changed nothing. I am still gripping life with two hands and giving most things a red hot go. I push forward with creativity. Creativity is what keeps me from descending into despair. I can write a difficult day out. I can paint to forget or to inspire. I can dance away any pains. I can play music to experience joy. I can not imagine being here without having a rich creative life. It is one of the first thoughts in the morning and the last thoughts at night. It makes me smile on both the outside and inside. What will I do today with my time on earth? How can I connect with others? What will I create?

What will you do today, with your next 24 hours on earth?

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

It was quiet, no sounds came from the house. She stood at the back door to her grandparents’ house, her faithful dog by her side.

She had escaped the noise of her own house – the constant crying of the new baby. Her baby brother did nothing but cry. Nobody knew why. It was not unusual to see her mother crying too, unable to soothe him or to fix what was wrong.

This little girl felt invisible, overlooked, lost. Unseen by the mother who was now so prepossessed by the new baby, she felt like she no longer mattered to her or to anyone. She found some comfort with her grandmother, a few doors down the street. Her own mother resented the little girl going there, to the in-laws, treating the girl like a traitor. Thinking a three year old could make conscience choices of allegiance.

She wandered. Not far, but away. Her dog with her all the time – the quiet bodyguard who always stood between her and danger.

The dog wasn’t allowed in her grandparent’s house. “That dog can’t be trusted,” her grandfather would say.

“Gramma?” she called out. No answer came. She’s at the other end of the house, she thought.

Slipping in through the door, leaving her dog behind, she saw the signs of activity in the kitchen, the beginnings of dinner but not her grandmother.

She walked through the house to the front bedroom her grandparents shared. She walked in. Her grandmother wasn’t there. A shadow fell across the door.. She turned to see the looming outline of her grandfather, menacing. She asked him where her grandmother was, trying to make her way out of the room as quickly as she could.

“She’s gone down the shops.” A fair walk, far enough and long enough that she knew that she was in danger. He grabbed her as she tried to move past, she tried to squirm free of his grasp, free from the hands that had sought her out before. Free from the hands that had touched her, confused her, hurt her. She couldn’t get free. He was dragging her to the bed. A foul taste filled the back of her mouth. She didn’t know what to do.

She screamed. She screamed as loud as she could, and kept screaming. Her dog barked at the back door. He barked and barked, ramming at the door and starting to howl.

Her bodyguard had saved her again. Her grandfather loosened his grasp and she was able to run. Run to the back door and out to her protector. Then she kept running, through the yard, through the back gate out to the commons with her dog hot at her heel.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a woman who had spent her life collecting things. Some of them were valuable and some of them had value only in the eyes of those who could find a use for them. The uses could be wide and varied, items to be admired, items that could perform specific tasks, items for which there was not yet a fixed use or even one that could be imagined. But it was important to collect these things, these items. One never knew when a need for their use may arise.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.