‘This may be the last chance you have to write anything. Write it like it is the last time.’ Deveny meant it, and she had to do it. She wrote something. She had ten minutes. She didn’t need writeordie.com or bloody Freedom App. She had Deveny breathing down her neck. In fact, she’d had a day with the ‘who gives a fuck?’ CatherineDeveny, an ex Irish Catholic (still Irish maybe?), a room full of women and a man who kept quiet. It was Stella’s idea of a dream day.

Tea towel under her arm, timer at the ready, Stella left the Gunnas workshop. She walked out into the crazy Hobart Street. The street was filled with a huge blue and yellow water slide, yellow plastic rings, people in swimmers and screams. The DJ was doing yet another count down and music was pumping. Just another Saturday in Hobart I hear you say? But no. This was different. Stella looked left and right for an escape route. It was yellow plastic rings whichever way she chose, and as she turned on her heel to go north, a huge yellow ring with a woman in situ came flying over the barrier. It landed with full force onto Stella. They both fell with a thud to the pavement. The woman sat astride Stella, water dripping from all her sticky-out bits onto Stella’s new trousers, now patchy all over. The woman saw that Stella was still holding a tea towel – a tea towel? A piece of paper had fallen from her left hand. ‘She’s not moving. She’s not breathing.’ The woman stood, staring, with her yellow ring still firmly in place. She started to cry as people pushed past her to get to Stella. She opened the paper and read ‘Inspiration follows action. Catherine Deveny’s  writers’ workshop. Melbourne – next month. Don’t fucking miss it!’
When Mavis had left the house that cold, dark morning to go to the water slide event with her four children, (only because it was pre-booked and her mum had paid for the tickets), she did not know that this day would change her life forever. She had always wanted to go to Melbourne and she had always wanted to write. She ran to the top of the queue through the field of yellow, ready to scream.

“You need to know, who your people are, what your culture is, and where you come from. If you don’t understand that about yourself, you’ll never understand it about us,” said the elderly Aboriginal man, who was doing his best to ‘educate’ me. Those words guided me to return to Tasmania, and to seek out as much time as possible with my last remaining grandparent, my paternal grandmother.

I discovered that I came from a colonial, Vandemonian family. Of course I was most attracted to the story that no-one wanted to tell – Gran’s mother’s family …. why did no-one want to speak about them? Gran’s mother, Annie Catherine, was universally loved and adored by her grandchildren. “She never liked to talk about her family”.

The mystery drew me in. I discovered a photo of her mother, Ada Amelia. It had been mistakenly identified as the “other” grandmother, Charlotte. But there was Charlotte, in the background. So the grandmother featured in this photo was not Charlotte, meaning it must have been Ada! My expertise in understanding our family was growing … I had discovered something that no-one else had.

Now to find Ada’s family. There was no birth record for her, but I found a family that seemed to fit. I contacted a descendent, who was also a family researcher. “No”, was his haughty retort. “You are not from our family, I’ve been contacted by your people before. Poor research. Please leave me alone”.

When I discovered the baptism records, for my Ada, and the haughty researcher’s ancestor, and two more siblings that he was not aware of, I wondered whether to share my discovery with him …. “Welcome to the family,” the haughty man said, without understanding that I did not need him to welcome me to my own family.

Now I had the name of Ada’s parents. This brought me face to face with the stories that had been buried.  Ada’s mother Janet, not just a young convict, like so many in my family, but an alcoholic and a thief until her dying day. There were the newspaper records – the time that she abandoned Ada, aged three, with only her seven year old brother to fend for her; when Ada was five, the removal of Janet’s twin infants into state care; when Ada was six, her mother serving short prison sentences.

After Ada married and started her own family, there was her mother, following her to settle in a nearby town, and being arrested for petty crime over and over again. So this was what Annie Catherine was hiding, a grandmother bringing so much grief to the family. By the end of her life, none of Janet’s children cared for her. She died in an invalid institution and was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave.

Yes, Janet had a hard life, she was abandoned herself, back in Dundee, Scotland – her father at sea, her mother in prison. Yes, she did the best she could. But how could Ada have borne it? How could she survive such a childhood? She must have been so damaged. And yet Ada raised Annie Catherine, universally loved, such a good woman. Ada broke the chain of neglect. She warmed her child with love, and brought her to a good life. Ada is my heroine, for what she did.

But, I was troubled by my feelings about Janet. Where was my solidarity with a woman who had clearly struggled?

So I went to Dundee, I walked the streets that young Janet walked – where she slept under the stairs with her friend, where she stole the shawl, where she hocked the shawl, where she bought the soup for them to eat, the place at the river where they washed their faces, the street where she was arrested, and the police station where she was imprisoned. Making that walk, I felt her as a young woman, who simply wanted to have a good life, but had no options.

The impact of tracing my family all the way back to Scotland, surprised me. Not only did I find peace with my great, great grandmother, but I now I had a visceral experience of “where my people came from”. We are not from Australia. Our time on this land is so fleeting, our roots are in other lands, far across the globe.

Once upon a time nothing mattered, nothing was small, nothing was large, nothing was same, nothing was different, nothing was right, nothing was wrong, nothing pretty, nothing ugly, no happiness, no sadness, no violence, no calm, no fuck you .. you fuck me, and no way all these things could dwell in the same time in one head poised to detonate like a suicide vest. This was long before we vacantly trailed our collective fingers in the earths’ dust for the last time, releasing an evolutionary seed nurtured by judgement.  Our tongues cracked into action to decree who was in, and who was out and long dormant networks sparkled in our brains, creating and recreating swearing words and provocative metaphors to give blunt force to our reasoning. Millenniums later, on hearing the photographer’s brother was a freak of nature, the new owner of a country newspaper requested a special image be created. There’s a copy of his written demand and twelve grim photos in the paper’s archive. No one knows how, or by who the photographers giant sibling was co-opted, where the tiny man was found, whether money was exchanged or who decided to tuck the small man into the rear of giant’s trousers, where he was captured forever grimacing through the centre vent of an enormous tailcoat. It’s a juxtaposition that furrows the viewers brow in an effort to disassemble the small man from the frowning giants arse. I’m not sure it doesn’t matter?

Banging around in my head are ALL the words!

Getting them out is up to me…I know that. I understand that I make excuses not to write, not to paint, not to be creative.

I’ve stopped being that person who sits in the passenger seat of the care and yells, “Stop!!” to whomever may be driving (usually my husband) so I can capture an image, so that I can paint a picture, write a poem or a story.

That old barn, the rusty red tractor, the field of poppies, that ridiculous sign that is misspelt. All stored in that iPhone that is my library of prompts.

It’s a sadness that I can’t explain and one that nags at me, every day.

What happened, why did I choose to let go of the one thing that truly satisfied my “soul”?

The joy of painting, listening to music, being in my own space, journaling the process.

It seemed to die the day I painted for my Dad. I came home from his passing…I let the sadness take away a part of me. I wasn’t strong, I was weak and of no consequence.

Gone was the urge to find quotes, make words that went with my visual – even the visuals had slipped away.

I have clung to the photos, joined all the Facebook groups to ‘force’ me to participate and sometimes, that works, but not always.

Sometimes I find myself crying. Not big heaving sobs but just tears that run.

Sometimes I’m angry, “Just fuck off everyone and leave me alone!”

I’m sick of being the fixer.

Now is my time. I have the space, I have the time, I even have the bloody photo references. I just need to do it.

That space upstairs is again going to be mine. I’m reclaiming it. I deserve it and I need it.

Wish me well. I haven’t done something just for me for a long time and I’m excited.

Best of all? I think I’ve learned that sometimes, you just have to not give a fuck. It’s a freedom I have been loath to embrace but I’m going to. With big open arms.

So how would a tarot novel start? With The Fool (number 0) would be an obvious place, but the Queen of Swords would surely want to oversee. The Queen of Swords standing above, looking over us all, appraising, noticing, seeing where we fall apart, where we have steeped too long in the tea of ignorance and have forgotten to question why we had poured ourselves a cup of conditioned crap. I would meet the Queen of Swords as a seeker. I want her to notice me and I want to grow well in her company, but I am also aware that she holds the larger experience here. For she has been sitting there with her Sword for centuries now. She has been watching human life arise and fall away and their stories be mistold or completely forgotten. She has been perfecting the art of communication for hundreds of years, since the first tarot deck was drawn into existence. She knows when to speak and she knows when to be silent. Yet it is her silence that unnerves me. How she watches me, gazing so intently that I know that she can see every shitty little ignorant irrelevant thought I’ve ever had. I want to cry like a baby at her feet because I am so small and insignificant in my experience of life while she’s been turned over in hundreds of thousands of tarot readings for hundreds of years by thousands of different storytellers, each with their own way of seeing and breathing and waking and sleeping. I want to stand beside her and pick up my own Sword and turn around to gaze at the world as she does. And see all without getting caught up in the haze that distracts us all. I would focus on the clear, distinct markers on the path – past, present and possible future – and speak to them directly. I would bypass all the silly, irrelevant activities that put a block between me and the understanding of the inescapable entropy of everything. There is much to write about in order to piece my brain and my heart back together so that I can share my music with you. It all starts with the first word.

manage verb (SUCCEED) to succeed in doing or dealing with something, especially something difficult.

Over the years I’ve had the dubious honour to have the word Manager in my job title. I’ve managed productions, projects, budgets, teams of people, and their expectations. While managing to keep plants, fish, a cat and myself alive, for varying lengths of time, I’ve also managed to stay out of debt, rehab, jail and serious punch-ons.. I don’t know everything, but I reckon I know a thing or two about management.

In many companies, the convention remains that good news always goes on the notice board, and from time to time, the Manager is called upon to deliver bad news to a group of people. Lets say the news is that due to circumstances that are truly beyond your control, the gig has been cancelled and that the entire company’s contract (including yours) will be terminated two days hence. There is no good news in this story and people will rightly be shocked, feel shafted and be pretty shitted off. As the deliverer of these bad tidings, you will be perceived as the instigator (which you may well unwillingly be) and thus the target for the sum total of the shaftee’s rage and wrath. As a ‘big M’ Manager, your job is to suck this up, thats why they pay you the big bucks, but good management will see the situation cut and cauterised in the shortest time possible. The trick here is to employ the Kiss Punch Kiss Method (KPKM) to avoid being punched in the kisser further down the road. You will need to buy a packet of Fantales, and schedule two appointments. The first appointment will be with all of the people you need to sack and you’ll want to book it for 3pm in the afternoon, when collective blood sugar is at an all time low. The second appointment will be at your local waxing establishment, for a gender non-specific Back Crack and Sack Wax (BCSW) and that should be around 4pm on the same day.

When you see that everyone is gathered in the meeting room, walk in, throw the packet of Fantales on the table, and wait – thats the first Kiss. The gathered will descend on it like grateful diabetic wolves. Once everyone is happily gobbing away, enjoying the sugar hit and comparing movie stars, call attention and throw your bad news Punch. Keep it short, key points only, three sharp jabs at most. Allow the hits to land, but not for too long, and then while the caramel mouth guards still render them mute, it is important to make eye contact with everyone in the room, tell them you will speak with them all personally tomorrow, declare an early mark (the second Kiss) and leave immediately for your next appointment. The imminently unemployed will all then go to the pub, and bitch about you while they get drunk, secretly stoked to be sinking piss during work hours. Your ears will burn until they pass out, but by the time you see them in the morning, the initial Knee Jerk Reaction (KJR) will have passed.

Don’t get me wrong, even though you’ve given everyone a lolly and the afternoon off, when (if) they arrive at work the next day, you will be obliged to offer your sincere ear to the venting of your soon to be exemployees, which will test the seal of even the most shit-proof jacket, so you will need to be psychically prepared. While the disgruntled are processing, you’re headed for your BCSW.

For those who have never engaged in the delicate art of having all the fur removed from their body by way of hot wax and fabric strips, its exactly as much fun as it sounds. On entering the small flouro lit cubicle, a lady called Lin-Darleen comes in and tells you to get your gear off and your ass up on the plastic coated bed. The unspoken arrangement is that Lin-Darleen will systematically coat every hair below your neck with hot wax and rip it out at varying speeds and associated levels of pain – like bandaids, the slower wax is ripped off, the more it hurts. Some waxers know this and work with alacrity, others also know this, but don’t give a fuck and will inflict whatever pain they want in their own sweet time. Thats the fun of the depilatory lottery.

So you’re up on the table, sticking to the plastic, and Lin-Darleen has worked her way down your patches and is about to slather a paddle pop stick full of hot wax on your asshole, before she rips it off with her latex gloved hands. There is literally no standing on ceremony during this procedure, the dual purposes of which are to render your pucker hair free, and to provide you with a window to your own humility. Take a moment to be really present in the feeling. As far as happy endings go, you will happily hand over your hard earned cash for services rendered, purely because they have ended, and you and Lin-Darleen will never speak of it again. You will walk away from this appointment with pins and needles all over your skin, a tingling, tacky date and a deeper understanding of the perimeters of your pain threshold. This will serve you well in the days ahead.

On arrival at work the following morning, let it be known that each outgoing employee will be allotted personal meeting time with you, to share their thoughts and feedback on the most recent turn of events. Obviously, there is a good chance that most of them will be hung-over, if not still drunk, and although operating at less than optimum capacity, all will be displaying classic symptoms of the victim of a “Fuck and Dump” who has successfully rebottled their sorrows, regained consciousness and instinctively come out of the corner fighting, in order to salvage some skerrick of “Yeah, well I told them… have you got any painkillers?”

As you sit through this interminable revolving door of anger and recrimination, there will be nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, Manager. Arrange your best active listening face, button up your shit proof jacket, and cast your mind back to Lin-Darleen.

This is a story I have longed to tell, about a problem that is much more prevalent than people believe. It’s something that is couched in shame and despair and it is an issue that people do not know how to address. To make matters worse, it is often unacknowledged by professionals when sufferers seek help.

In my work as a Sexologist, I have so many lovely young women come to see me about an inability to have intercourse or experiencing large amounts of pain and/or discomfort during intercourse and other sexual activities. Older women have this complaint as well, but this seems particularly prevalent amongst younger women.

What is particularly distressing for many of these women is that they have often been to numerous practitioners and been told:

• There is nothing wrong with you!
• Stop being so silly! Just get on with it.
• You will get used to it in time.
• Just relax.
• Stop being so up tight!

And many other dismissive things.

In fact, a colleague of mine has done a PhD dissertation on Female Genital Pain and she presented that women who experience Vaginismus have often been to upward of 18 practitioners and can have spent in excess of $20,000 seeking treatment for their problem. This breaks my heart.

When I speak to these girls I immediately validate and normalize their pain/discomfort. I give them permission to be experiencing it and sit with their frustration and fear at the situation they find themselves in. I can see their bodies immediately relax when they realize that they are speaking to someone who finally gets what they have been experiencing. They just want to be “normal” and can’t understand why they are having these problems.

It’s the relaxing of the body that proves potent. Vaginismus is a dysfunction that starts in the head but has very real pain and physical repercussions. It is an involuntary clamping or tensing of the vaginal and pelivic floor muscles that can – at its most extreme – prevent entry by a penis, a digit or even a doctor’s examining tool. Sometimes penetration is possible but it can cause pain and discomfort which can result in the sufferer being fearful of and wanting to avoid sex. This, of course, can have detrimental effects on the sufferer’s relationship(s) with sexual partner(s).

It is possible that after suffering Vaginismus for some time without resolution, the muscles can remain in hypertonic spasm permanently. Often women are not in touch with the pelvic region of their body and will be unable to tell if there is any stress or discomfort there unless an extreme event – such as intercourse – is attempted. Often they are unable to tell if they are sexually aroused as they are not in touch with how their body works.

When I see the young women relax as we are speaking, I notice it to them. It’s a great opportunity to then ask them if they tense up during sex … and by the time I get to meet them, they invariably are. Given that the client now knows that I understand what is going on and that I have empathy for the frustration and fear that they are experiencing, we have set a good foundation to start working on the cause of the Vaginismus.

There are many causes for Vaginismus ranging from a fear of the mechanics of sex; lack of knowledge about foreplay and arousal; feeling pressured into sex; feeling hurried or a lack of privacy; feeling guilt or shame; picking up on a partner’s anxiety or fears. So many different reasons!

The work I do with these young women is to explore their narratives about sex; discover stories that may not be useful to them; help them listen to their body and what their body is telling them; and give them permission to have their experience as it is. We then start to re-write their narrative around sex to something that will serve them better and often work in conjunction with specialist physiotherapists to help unlock the muscles that are in spasm.

Sounds very straight-forward and it is! But the pressure these girls experience to be “normal” and “perform” is immense. It’s a journey that can take from one visit to six months of regular appointments … but it’s a journey that can be well worth it for these girls … one of self discovery, knowledge and permission granting and one that finds their voice around their own sexuality.

This is the kind of work I love to do; addressing self doubts; tackling their pain and fears and re-writing their sexual narrative to reflect who they are and to give them permission to embrace their own sexuality (without feeling shame, obligation or fear).

In other words, I get to meet fabulous people and help them be more fabulous … its not a bad gig is it? I really am grateful everyday for that experience.

The laughter stung more than the impact as I lay on the asphalt- my arm sandwiched between the ground and my body. The loud guffaws from the passing car ebbed away as I stood and picked out the tiny stones imprinted in my arm and realized my elbow was pretty bloody sore.

My husband broke into a trot pushing the pram with my baby girl to catch up and see if I was ok. The towering pines that stand sentinel over the Manly beachfront litter pine fronds over the grass and bike path below them. One pine frond had halted my skateboard and catapulted me skyward and then downward. Bam! Hello bitumen and broken elbow.

I was quite unprepared for the reprimands and scolding I received from friends, family and strangers. “You’re a mother now. You shouldn’t be skateboarding a month or two after giving birth!” was the general accord. One friend admonished “It serves you right!”. It was my body and I’d paid the price, yet what I did seemed to really bother people. As a new mother, God forbid I should do anything joyous and active that made me feel alive. Best I sit on the couch scoffing Tim-Tams watching Dexter. Now I love nothing more than a great box set and some Cookies and Cream Connoisseur ice cream, but I want more from life than that. And skateboarding and surfing motivate me to eat healthier and exercise regularly. After I had my first child, rather than batten down the hatches and hole myself up at home, I wanted to try new things, learn and grow. Having my daughter inspired me! I wanted to show her that you can put your mind to doing what your heart so desires.

Interestingly nobody questioned my husband taking up skateboarding as a father. Almost as if it wouldn’t have been as disastrous if he hurt himself. Society views a mother as the glue that holds the family together, keeps the cogs turning, feeding, washing and organizing. And yes, many households do work this way. And many don’t. We don’t have to be defined by antiquated views of gender roles. I’ll be damned if I can’t hop on a skateboard and my husband can’t competently run a household. Let’s look more broadly than what convention tells us.

After my fracture, I wondered to myself- when in our lives does falling become unacceptable. Both literally, and metaphorically. A few months ago I watched my little boy fall over and over as he learnt to walk. We view this process as totally normal and understand that in order to walk he will fall and cry, and fail and struggle before he acquire the skill of walking. When do we become so scared of falling that we stop having a crack at new things. When in our minds does it become so undesirable to fall. So displeasing to fail.

From my observations it doesn’t take long. My 5 year old at times becomes frustrated and hesitant to draw a picture, as it won’t turn out the way she wants it to. She is scared of failing. We all are. And that is why I skate. I’m scared. I’m scared of hurting myself physically, but I’m even more afraid of falling in front of people, of breaking another bone, having people laughing and chide “I told you so!”.

And that’s why 5 years and 3 children later I’m still having a dig. Not because I’m a crazy reckless hoon with a death wish, and let’s be real- we are all taking a risk when we buckle our seatbelt in the car every morning. I’m consciously choosing to walk towards the fear, not run from it. I want to feel awake. Not dead inside. I don’t want to wonder what I could have done if I’d tried. The exhilaration and delight I could have felt. I have fallen since and I will fall again. But to me that is not failing. Not trying something you really want to do is failing.

This week I attempted a frontside turn on a small incline in the skatepark. This is a very simple maneuver, but one I have been petrified of trying. It involves turning towards your blind spot and it feels downright awkward. I had to push beyond comfort. And I fell (take a breath- I wear safety pads all the time now!). And then it happened…I felt the magic. I hit the sweet spot, felt weightless for a moment as time stopped, and then rode down the incline as if I was flying. Cue rainbows, unicorns and euphoria!

Falling, however you define it, is never as bad as you imagine. And it sure as hell beats not having a red hot go.

Hadn’t bought the ticket, didn’t ask to board, in that moment everything became fuzzy, slowly our world began to turn.   Since that moment, life changed. The past week has been a rollercoaster, a ferris wheel of emotions continually spinning around. Will this horrible ride end soon, it’s supposed to be great fun. Can we disembark next turn, will that come after the funeral, can it please stop now. Is it after the cremation, do we have to go another round?

When will the haunting cease, tick tock it’s four o’clock – in the a.m, another vivid and morbid image to wake me, disrupt sleep yet again. Can these inconveniences please stop? They’ve pressed the button, drawn the curtain and the committal has been done, she’s on her way, friends left in grief to battle on through their day.

The after party at the pub didn’t make things better or return the smiles to our faces. Can’t quite remember a time I disliked beer or wine so much. Someone suggests a Canadian Club and soda, am far from sober, but it helps the same topic and discussion flow; why, why, why?

Why is she not here in her usual place behind the bar, this is getting harder, reality is setting in. A couple of sips into what I think is scotch, am set off on that ride again, this time anger ascends. The soundtrack of our happier teen lives is played out in the background and that helps with the next turn, smile returns.   With eighties
up-tempo pop tunes, the group starts to move and singing has begun, God help us all if they play that Rick Springfield hit – it doesn’t take long. The guitar riff starts and everyone is drunkenly excited, this is their dedication, their hymn honouring a mate. They adored her, it’s all too much to take. Tra, la, la … .. ‘when will we find a woman like that, again’ …