Category Archives: Gunnas-Masters

Hold Tight – Robert Glavich

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was the feeling of falling. She held tight and laughed, falling to Earth. David seemed happy, though focussed on not letting go. They were a long way up, in a time and place when safety was a minor concern.

David was thinking of death. If he plummeted and it all ended now what would become of him? What would life be then for Sara? God figured in David’s scheme of things. How the Universe moved and evolved meant nothing to him without Good overlooking every motion, every action, every thought.

Sara always found this perverse. Her smiles were expected by all those around her, she infected people with her joy. Every day she woke and realised how much David had become infected too. Not with joy, but what she came to call his God disease.

If David desired so much the Nirvana of God, he spoke of it often enough, then why not just get the fuck there? It’s just too strange. So bizarre to see people living in anticipation of death.

So as she falls all this flows through her and she thinks “One day, one day honey, if you don’t shut up about God and this perfect after life, I’m going to make your God disease terminal.” And that’s when she realised she was not really joking.

In that moment of joy and the sensation of falling, she had transformed. Because of that, she now knew that her life with David would change. What would she do when this short precipitous fall had ended? She now had only moments more to decide, and it was enough.

The pace at which she felt all this, played her thoughts through her heart was terrifying. The smile vanished. The joy froze in her heart. She knew it was over.

The man she had only seconds before radiated love for, was looking like a stranger. Because of that she would let go. Better her than him. His pain at losing her would be a shadow of the loss if she were to abandon him. Until finally as they drew to safety she thought, “Fuck. What an idiot I can be.”

Her life would never be the same. David would break and heal. Letting go would certainly have been fatal, but heartbreak isn’t. With a huge sigh of relief she reached the end of the ride. A simple carnival flying fox had been cause of her greatest epiphany. Her narrow brush with death.

Go Back

Devotional – Catherine Lockstone

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Loved denied
or deferred
often has so much more
power
than the love
quietly lived
day after day
Measured not in stolen glances
an heart flutters
but in dryer loads folded
and cat boxes scooped
The devotion and care
taken to do chores
with the only reward
to do it again
tomorrow
Maybe this is the slow love
the less showy love
the longer burning love
The fireworks
and palpitations
are all fine
Love must always start
somewhere
Like the big bang
this theory holds
that the initial excitement is
no more than
a catalyst
for the more mundane acts
of love
and devotion
Maybe our poetry needs to encompass
the school runs
on cold, wet mornings
or the interminable mowing
Perhaps it is epistles
of praise
for bin collection
and bread runs
And perhaps I
can encourage my unruly heart
to skip a beat
or two
for these devotionals
lovingly rendered
No flowers
or chocolate tchotchkes
required.

 

Go Back

Dear Perth Gunnas – Gina Sanderson

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

We live on a beautiful farm north of Perth in Chittering, about 35 minutes past the Swan Valley. We have just completed our hand built mud brick art studio and love inviting others to share in this amazing and creative space. To all the Gunna’s in today’s workshop, you are welcome to come up and spend a weekend. Give yourself some time to write or just take a break and enjoy the peace and quiet. Our next project is building accommodation but for now there are two beautiful revamped caravans available.
Check out the website: http://www.chitteringacres.com.au/
Contact us on FB: Chittering Acres Studio, or email Gina: sanderson_gina@hotmail.com

 

Go Back

Do I Look Like I Give a Fuck? – Sonja

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Today I went to a Gunnas Writing Masterclass.  I was terrified, intimidated and overwhelmed… until I arrived at the class and started chatting with some fellow ‘Gunnas’.  Then Catherine worked her magic and got me thinking.  A lot.  And laughing.  A lot.  Two of the many things which stuck with me from today were ‘how many people in your life really love you just for who you are, not for what you do for them and vice versa’.  The other was about not giving fucks.

I don’t give many fucks, but I’ve come to realise there’s a difference between not giving fucks and not caring.

From a young age, much to my mother’s disgust, I never gave a fuck.  Not about what I should do because I was a girl – if anything, if it was ‘meant to be for boys’ I was in.  Playing with cars, building with Lego, climbing, digging in the sand… and while the other girls had prissy pink bikes with streamers on the handle bars, I had a kick-ass BMX.  I’m sure Mum would have been delighted if I was more feminine.  If I were more inclined to knit, bake and sew than to go to the speedway or fishing.  Actually, she’ll hate this piece just based on the amount of fucks I’ve thrown around.  Sorry, Mum.

As an adult, my non-fuck giving isn’t much different.  I still don’t conform to what I should or shouldn’t do just because I’m a female, but also, there are some jobs I’m happy to hand over to someone else – whether they’re male or female – if they’re more skilled or able than I… or what ever reason I choose.  It’s also extended to not giving a fuck whether people approve of me or who I am.  I know I’m a good person.  I am compassionate, I am caring – I am a decent human being who doesn’t go out of their way to cause pain to others and I’ve even been known to go out of my way to help others.  So, if someone chooses to judge me based on my age, my fat, the fact that I have tattoos or which area I live in, I don’t give a fuck.  I save the fucks I give for those I care about.  Anyone else can go take a flying jump.

I am one who has people in my life who I love for who and what they are, and I know there are those who feel the same for me.  This is what keeps a smile on my face when things may seem a little overwhelming.  The knowing that they’re there.  That wherever they are, if I need them, I have them and they have me.  It’s taken a lot of years to smarten up to this idea and realise it, but by Christ, it’s worth it now.

Also, I need to shop for a tiara… but that’s a whole other subject.

Go Back

I Left My Haight in San Francisco – Xan Ashbury

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Eight years ago I was thought I was going to lose (in no particular order) my baby and my home and my marbles.
In the end I lost none of those. But I did leave half my name in San Francisco airport.
You see, back in 1993, like any well-travelled, free spirited, authority-averse, screwed-up-by-broken-family 19-year-old I thought it would be great to change my last name to Haight-Ashbury, after the San Francisco district at the epicentre of the flower power movement of the late 1960s.
It was my sister’s idea and it fitted the bill. Our family name was Haigh. All we had to do was add a ‘t’ and a hyphen and the Ashbury.
I pretty much hated my dad at that point and I liked the irony of a double barrel name that was the compete antithesis of what most double barrel names represented.
It was a subversive way of wearing my ideology on my sleeve – and in this case, my student card, driver’s licence and passport as well.
The man at the deed poll office was good enough not to venture any sage advice about how perhaps when the time came to get a proper job, having the name Haight-Ashbury on my CV – a name that was now synonymous with drug-fucked hippies – would not be a good look.
He probably should have said that because the thought had never occurred to me. Fortunately for him, he didn’t because I think he could tell from my Violent Femmes t-shirt and nose ring that I wasn’t someone who would care to be lectured.
And when I got married in 1999, my husband was a bit miffed I wouldn’t be trading in my juvenile, gimmicky name for his sensible family name. But like the man at the deep poll office, he knew not to push the issue.
Seven years into our marriage, I got itchy feet. So I shoehorned my husband, our toddler and a baby names book (I was pregnant again) into an old campervan to spend six months on the road, to culminate in blissful week in an apartment in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco.
Except we never quite got there.
Life on the road took its toll. After vomiting after every meal throughout the first and second trimester, I was no little miss sunshine. And the fact that my husband didn’t have any sympathy for my situation – because I refused to take medication for the nausea – made me even crankier.
He grew up in a medical family, in which drugs were offered at the first sight of any ailment.
I grew up with a mother who, even if I was half dead, would administer garlic – and possibly aloe vera. And this had served me perfectly well. I might have chosen to be a Haight-Ashbury but there was no way I was going to take any so-called harmless drugs for morning sickness. You say harmless, I imagine missing limbs.
The week before we were due to hit the city of my dreams, we did the ultimate tree-hugger’s pilgrimage – we visited the giant sequoia trees in the mountains a few hours south east of San Fran.
And it was while communing with nature that I started to feel the “call of nature”.
Only it turned out it wasn’t really a toileting issue – it was an impatient baby wanting to pop out nine weeks early.
What ensued was a quick trip to the nearest hospital and quick birth and a quick look at my tiny, weeny baby before he was intubated, pumped with drugs to make his heart and lungs work and put inside a glass box in the neonatal intensive care unit. There I was, terrified – feeling like the life had been sucked out of me.
But also relieved that my love-hate relationship with pregnancy was over.
When the doctors wanted to know if I had taken any drugs, I couldn’t help wonder if the old Haight-Ashbury name had thrown up a few red flags. (As I later discovered, most of the premmie babies in the NICU were “drug babies”. Fresno, 40 minutes away, was officially the crystal-meth capital of the world. )
I told them I hadn’t taken anything since trying acid, twice, in 1993, and that I hadn’t even had a coffee in seven months. They took a blood test anyway.
The next few months were a blur of hand scrubbing, cuddling, sobbing and expressing milk every four hours. The days and nights were filled with watching monitors blink and bleep. Of holding Carter’s tiny hand through scans, echocardiograms, blood tests and blood transfusions.
Nearly every day there were conversations with our insurance company, which was refusing to pay up – and we’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. Perhaps they looked at my hippy name and mistakenly took me for pacifist.
This fight (which I won), this overwhelming desire to stick it to the man, was driven not by hate but the passionate love you feel for your own flesh and blood.
Although the nurses in the Neo Natal Intensive Care Unit didn’t make it easy for me by constantly playing those two types of music – Country *and* Western. Not recommended listening for fragile, sleep-deprived or depressed mums. (“I lost my wife, I lost my job and then my dog died . . .”)
Finally, Carter was fit to travel, our bills were paid and we were ready to leave the hospital and the US of A.
Oxygen bottle – check
Freshly polished resuscitation skills – check
Tickets for a business class flight to Sydney – check
And so there I was in San Francisco airport, baby in my arms, checking in an esky, packed with 30 litres of frozen breast milk.
I still had my marbles, I still had my house and I vowed to leave the Haight behind in San Francisco, so many years after that Summer of Love.
Since then, I’ve just been Xan Ashbury.
Go Back

Concocting a Compromise – Rebecca Psanoudakis

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Once upon a time there was a girl called Judith and a girl called Mary-Lou. They were best friends. They were inseparable at school and on the weekends. They shared sandwiches at lunchtime and swapped notes during class. They told the other kids at school that they were almost cousins. They shared a desire to express to the world how close they were. It wasn’t enough to be together on weekend sleepovers or afterschool play overs, they wanted to live together, share every waking moment together and then wake up in the morning and tell each other their dreams. Everyday at school whom ever came first would wait for the other at the school gate. One would not want the other to be lonely for too long.

Once they had disclosed their strong yearning to be one the best friends spoke for hours in a day, between classes and then after school dawdling home, chattering about how they ‘should have’, if God had been kind, been born as Siamese twins.

“But where in this perfect paradise,” Judith would say to Mary-Lou, “Where would we be joined?”

“Oh Judi Perdi, at the hip of course!” replied Mary-Lou all matter of fact.

“Oh of course, silly me.” Judith would whisper under breath, somehow her friend always had a way of making her feel stupid.

The girls would not be able to say whose idea it was as all their words jumbled together snowballing them along the path of witchcraft. Free time had meaning and over a course of a week between them they had collected rose petals, black lawn beetles, bull ants, empty snail shells, a matted fur dreadlock from Judith’s tabby cat Feral and fleas off Mary-Lou’s dog Douglas, a garlic bulb, soya sauce and brown sugar, fish emulsion, blood and bone, sand and pond water from the duck park across from Mary-Lou’s house. After the week of planning and hording the ingredients for the magical concoction they sneaked out Judith’s mum’s good Jamie Oliver mortar and pestle outside to the garden setting, down the side of the house next to the compost bin. Mary-Lou and Judith added all matter to the mortar. Mary-Lou took charge with the pestle and crushed away until anything alive was dead, black and slimy.

Mary-Lou sucked hard on her cola chuppa chup, then moved it swiftly with her tongue to the cushion of her cheek, “It’s about compromise Judith.”

A droplet of sweet dribble escaped her mouth falling into the mixture, she stopped pummelling briefly, weighing up her unforseen human error, she shook her head at herself, then looking her friend directly in the eyes, “That’s ok. Um anyway like I said, compromise. We will need to give up something of our self, if we want to be one with the other. It’s that simple.”

Judith felt a wave of anxiety creep into her armpits and her sweat tear up and slide down her arm, “I’m just not sure what I want to give up of myself. Is it forever? Can we go back to being how we are if we don’t like being one?”

“Oh Judi Poo it’s fine. I have been giving this a lot of thought and I’ve got this. You know how you are always complaining about being a blood nut?”

Mary-Lou takes the lollypop out of her mouth, she had more to say than Judith wanted to hear, Judith rolled off the concrete garden seat onto the ground resting her forehead on her arms like she did while playing heads down thumbs up at school. She sniffed at her armpits for B.O. and relaxed with relief at getting a whiff of Mum deodorant instead.

“Yes Mazza. You try having an orange fro and see how you like it.” Judith grumbled into her chest.

“It’s not a fro Ju. You’ve just got out of control curls, I’ve told you before you need to comb your hair with a rake not a bristle brush and use conditioner; the two in one doesn’t cut it. But it doesn’t matter anyway; this is why we are doing what we are doing, it is perfect for the both of us. You’ve got great legs, they’re really fast, you won last years Year 6 Champion Girl and I reckon you will do it again this year. And my legs are pins, they nearly snap in half walking down Monument Hill and Mum still won’t let me shave them and I’ve never had a bad hair day in my life. So we compromise, your head for mine.”

Judith looked up at her friend grinning from ear to ear, Mary-Lou shot her a wink and smugly plopped her cola lollypop back into her mouth.

“My arms sore, your turn.”

Judith pulled herself from the ground and took the pestle from her bestie.

“Wow you can’t even see any legs in here.” Judith bent down and peered at the black muck her nose an inch away, “or heads.”

“That’s the magic JuJu, it’s become one.” Mary-Lou shook her head marvelling at her own genius.

“I reckon it’s done Mazz.”

“Just another five minutes, it’s about the balance, the combining of us. Our energy.”

“Yeah but there’s not much of a balance in the end is there? When we are one ‘being’, we will be mostly me and only your head.”

“It’s in our intention. Mum said Wayne Dwyer says there’s power in intention and if we intend to be one and balanced and then that’s what we will be.”

Mary-Lou peered up at the sun, “Yup, that’s it. It’s ready.”

“Wow, so what do we do now?”

“ Easy there’s nothing to it. All you need to do is eat this.”

 

Judith didn’t have a strong stomach at the best of times. It’s why she always turned down her friend’s offer of a strawberry cream chuppa chup, not because her friend was making a subtle jib at her complexion but because she had really bad gag reflex. Judith heaved a little, “Me? Shouldn’t it be the both of us? Aren’t we going halves?”

“Well technically we aren’t going halves are we? We will be my head your body so that’s like one fifth or even one sixth of me compared to nearly all of you.”

“So you are saying I’m having most of it and your gonna have a bit.”

“Yeah yeah.”

“OK your right Mazza, fairs fair. So you will have to go first coz you’re the head right and you just have to have like a mouthful and I have the rest?”

“Yeah, that’s right you have all the rest.” Mary-Lou nodded excitedly, it was coming together perfectly, she couldn’t believe her friend was falling for her plan.

 

Judith picked the teaspoon up off the table and slowly stirred the concoction, she spooned the goo onto the teaspoon and swooped it to hover in front of Mary-Lou’s perfect lips, “You first.”

Go Back

A Poet? – Who Me? Hell Yes! – Why Not?!! – Tracy Armstrong

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

 

I’m sitting in the Gunnas Writing Masterclass

It’s the end of the day; the last task is 5 minutes to write

With my mind racing and hands shaking, all I think is

“Only 5 minutes? WTH? I could do this all night!”

 

I’ve never thought of myself as a writer

Never imagined I’d be a poet

But now I know this is what I’m meant to do

I just bloody know it!

 

I’ll write for the lost kid that’s in all of us

With my ancestors as spiritual guardians and guides

I’ll write about the Awesome Archangels

Our true imaginary friends, who never leave our side

 

Angels and Guides please help me to focus

Help get my shit together to reach my goal

I need to get these books out of my head

I ask with all my heart and soul

 

Thank you for guiding me to Gunnas

Thanks for Earth Angels like Catherine

I cried happy and nervous tears today

I’m inspired; I’m motivated … let’s make this shit happen!

 

Tracy Armstrong

Go Back

Gunna Do it – Sharon Bech

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Today I attended the Gunnas Class, there wasn’t much I needed to learn in particular, well that’s what I thought until today….When we think we don’t need it, that’s when we do!  The message I received today was powerful and was what I needed to hear…That writing is simple and there is only one way and that is, just do it!

Catherine Deveny is a natural presenter, she tells you as it is to the point of  ‘Who fucking cares’ that is what I loved about her and this class its so informal and yet so informative.  I highly recommend the Gunnas Class to everyone who believes they have a book within, just do it and get it done!

Thank you Catherine for a great day and for seeing my vision.

Go Back

Be less critical more often – Tracey Gregory

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

 

It took me a while to decide on the killing method. I’d chosen a bullet to the gut: it’s painful and it takes a while to bleed out, giving the person time to think about what they’d done. I’d had a lot of time to think about the method – I’d been hunting her for years. When I woke up I could smell her. I could taste her. I could hear her voice. But now, I had to find her. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I few times I caught up with her, only to have her evade me at the last moment. Or trick me into thinking I had her co-operation – that she understood the situation and would do her best to help me out. She was a liar and I learnt not to trust her. I searched long and hard. I’d looked for her everywhere – in London, in Perth, on holiday, on planes, on busses, in cars, on my bike, at the beach, in the park, in the pub, in my bed, on the toilet and in the shower.

I tore the world apart looking for her.

When I couldn’t find her anywhere, I went to work on myself.

I started with my guts. I cut open my stomach, slicing through the flesh, fat and muscle, and then I wrenched my intestines out. I worked my way along them, feeling every knot and bump. They were slightly small but still functioned. She wasn’t there so I moved on. I sawed open my skull, popped the top off then lifted out my brain. I unspooled it with my fingers and rummaged through it like I was separating spaghetti in a bowl. She wasn’t there. Next, I cracked open my chest, reached in and plucked out my heart. With blood streaming down my forearms I poked my thumbs into one side of the ventricles and watched them appear out the other side. I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until it pumped itself dry, nothing left but a lump of flesh. She was not there either. Perhaps she was somewhere more obvious. I looked at my hands. I cut my fingertips off and pulled back the skin down to my wrist. I opened and closed my fists and saw the tendons worked properly. I broke a finger, sucked out the marrow then spat it out like a child who’d been given the wrong flavoured jellybean. She was not there.

I placed my heart, brain and guts on the table in front of me and examined every last bit. I found nothing. I closed my eyes. When I opened them she was standing in front of me.

“You can never kill me,” she said. “Not with a bullet to the gut. Or by slitting my throat. Or tying weights around my feet and dumping me in the ocean. I am here to stay. I’m here to tell you all the things you need to hear; that you are wasting your time, what you write is crap, you are never going to finish, no one will want to read it. ”

She smiled. And in that moment I knew she was right. I would never kill her off. I would never beat her. She had been inside of me too many years.

“I can’t kill you,” I said. “But maybe I can keep you quiet for a while. Just long enough to do what I need to do.”

I picked up my brain and poured it back in my head. I took my guts and wrapped them around her body, tightly tying her hands together, palms not touching, giving her no room to move. I grabbed her head and forced her mouth open. I shoved my heart in her mouth until she started to gag.

I didn’t know how long I had – 10 minutes, an hour, a day, a week? At some time she would come unstuck and I would have to use my guts and heart to silence her all again.

But until then I had work to do. So I sat down at the computer and I wrote.

Go Back

An Encounter with Catherine and the Black Dog. On the Same Day – Kate Sofoulis

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Today, I tackled the chaos of the Big Smoke to attend Catherine Deveny’s Gunnas Master Class. My friends, Gina, a smart, talented, out there steam punk artist, had invited me. She was going for “fun”. I decided that if I was calling myself a writer, I should test the waters with other writers. Should being the definitive word.

The morning did not get off to a promising start. I was tired before I left home. Vivid dreams about thunderstorms and power outages kept me awake from the early hours. And with my punctuality suspect at best, I wanted to leave at eight o’clock on the dot to give me an extra half hour in case of disaster.

Goldie and I left in a shower of gravel at ten past eight. All was going according to plan until I turned onto the Roe Highway and came to an instant standstill. In despair, I risked being booked, making a sneaky mobile call to Gina. I just had to creep my way through to the Bypass, hoping I could catch up some time.

The next snag was my woeful knowledge of Perth city. Lack of familiarity plus endless road works sank my last faint hope of arriving on time. I was flustered and embarrassed as I entered, fifteen minutes late, with another participant. At least I wasn’t alone.

I would have loved to have recovered my wits, taken a few deep breaths and grabbed a cup of tea. Unfortunately this was not to be. Fi, from Greenmount, and I were plunged into the first task of introductions around the group.

The morning wore on. I was fascinated by the stories. But I wilted under a siege of terminology and apps, soundclouds and YouTube. They all appeared to be so much better than me. Hell, I hadn’t even known who Catherine Deveny was until Gina asked me to come to the Master Class. All my confidence began slipping away. I felt gauche and awkward and ignorant. The Black Dog had entered the domain. I could feel him breathing in my ear, taunting me with his whispers of my failure

The last straw was a sudden intense writer’s block. I could think of nothing. I could write nothing. Eventually, I wrote about drowning. Which I was.

Fortunately, lunch intervened. My hunger had deserted me but I felt like I had to salvage some of the money I’d spent on the day. Maybe I could eat up the two hundred and fifty dollars. I was ready to flee, back to the sanctuary of my home and my husband, when Gina caught me.

My shame was complete when I started to cry. In a public place with unfamiliar people. I hid at one of the tables. Gina coaxed me out of the dark depths of my well and persuaded me to stay for the rest of the afternoon. She helped me salvage my sense of worth so I could remain.

Gradually the fog was lifting. I was comfortable with the next activity. What would I do if I had six months only to live? The same as I was doing right now. Be with the man I love, in our house I love, with our dogs I love, in our gallery I love. And return for the end to our beloved Goldfields, so my last memories would be of Michael and the desert sky.

Then, we were given a card and a word. The card was a scene depicting bicycles. I could have laughed out loud with relief. I wrote about bicycles traversing the Goldfields and Michael’s rendition of that story, his metal sculpture “Bicycle Express”.

My nerve was failing me again when we began the last writing task. Simultaneously, Catherine played a video of the author who wrote “27 Dresses”. I gave up any pretence of writing and sat entranced by the story on the screen. And I caught a glimpse of self belief again.

I am exhausted tonight And exhilarated. I have written with relative ease, for one hour. I have no idea whether my writing has any worth. But if any other writer, or person for that matter, can read this and be less alone, then my writing has worth. And I am content.

Kate’s website is heavenlybeverleywa.blogspot.com and her gallery website is eastendgallery.com.au.

Go Back