Category Archives: Gunnas-Masters

Sam Jake – Adelaide

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

There were probably early signals. Little hints, subtleties along the way. Like an overly careful choice of words or the speed with which he would look away. But you see I was moving through the world with grandiose ambition and an elephantine ego. These small ripples? They were immaterial against my grand plans. After all, I was in Adelaide. Some kind of ghost town meets country town hybrid that didn’t know where to go after their premier wore pink hot pants in parliament. The whole state still holding their breath, smiling nervously, not making eye contact, waiting for a new collective identity. A communal pause that had gone on so long that they’d forgotten that they were still turning in slow lazy circles, pretending not to notice, casting about for the right next move.

Every footstep in Adelaide gave this kid from London a tiny stage on which to wow the audience. Look at me. Look at fucking me.

So that first meeting, the first one I remember, there were definitely already signs. He came in late and I was in his office waiting. When I say waiting I mean the kind that looks like standing on his coffee table, air-surfing and humming along to Hawaii-Five-O. I didn’t see him until he cleared his throat. Quick smart I jumped down and plonked my hefty arse in a chair. Delighted with my quirky self. Look at me. Look at fucking me.

He had a slight stutter and wore cardigans with leather elbow patches. He seemed timid. I imagined him in the cream brick, low lying western suburbs with a lemon tree in the front yard and old, musty carpet on his lounge room floor. In my mind I gave him elderly parents and made him a dutiful son. He was my new boss and so far he was scoring low on the relevance radar.

He sat carefully and neatly and looked down at his desk while he lined up the pen against the edge of the paper. My knee was still jiggling up and down to the theme music.

He looked up. “I’m saying this for your benefit”.

Shuffle. More pen straightening. My knee still now.

“If you want to succeed here you should pretend not to be gay”.

I remember it was sunny that day. I could hear the water trickling in the pond outside his window. Adelaide-hot, clear and dry.

I floated back in to the room. Something had moved in my chest. Not hurting, just rearranged. I couldn’t work out if time was really fast or really slow. Maybe it was just that the speed with which my heart shot blood around my body made the second hand on the wall clock seem to hesitate. Tick. Pause. Tick.

Look at me. Look at fucking me.

 

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What is missing?  – Yvonne Balakian

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Kids, such a strange thought (or action really) for someone the never really bonded with any – but at the ripe old age of 38 – there I was staring at the most amazing thing ever thinking  “how did this happen?”.

Yes, I know the dynamics – but me of all people, really? is this a dream? am I disillusioned and stole someone else baby?  No – this is me and there she lies – my own created life.  My flesh, my blood, my being.  Cradled in a crib.  She is 1 metre away, but a metre is too far.

Its 2am and she is only 2 hours old – wow did I make that? I am astounded by the bond – the beauty she ex spells.   She is the most amazing thing ever.

As i lie there watching her, getting to know her features, her movements I am overcome by a thunderous emotion of love.  Words escape me, or there are no words to describe the attachment I feel towards her.

It is more than a bond, it is more than any love know – it is just what it is…. the unknown.

With emotions felt, there is always a string of them and naturally as I lie there and watch her visibly absorb her surrounding, panic/anxiety/fear takes over.  Oh my god! what have I done?  How could I bring a child into this crazy world…. how can I be responsible for such a tiny person?  Will I be able to guide her through life, teach her to be a good person, teach her to live safely?  Can I do this?  What if something happens, what if I die before she is old enough to look after herself, WHAT IF SOMETHING BAD HAPPENS!!!!! on my friggin shit.  Stop the bus I want to get off !  stoppppp!

The panic consumed me, my heart races.  I just want to grab her, snuggle her against me, arms wrapped tightly and take her to safety… but where is safety, what is safe.  what is?  Faarrrrk off danger, go away.

Breath, breath, breath.

The moonlight reflects her eye movement as I watch her hungry eyes inhale the room.  Such innocence, such hunger.  I wonder what she is thinking, what is she feeling.  Will she know me?

Her tiny features i search for part of me in her somewhere.  Nose, na her fathers…. eyes, hmm maybe mine?

I am entranced.

I couldn’t bear to fall asleep and miss a moment without her.  Nothing else mattered, nothing else will  for she is what was missing in my life.  I am no longer just me, Von, I am mum forever here on in, and she is all I live for until death does us part.

 

 

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Who’s a pussy? – Kathryn Reidie

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

1.
Totally viscous, always with a face like a knife and wet, wet, wet. Always pussy. Who’s a pussy?
I was thinking about it the other day, and trying to connect it all. Porn and prostitution and my children and my abuse and my relationship and incredibly wayward sex drive, and I lay in the corner of my lounge room like a tiny red clitoris screaming. Screaming to the mother to save me, turn me on, turn me off, grant me a voice, a soul, a golden ticket, or a body. A body to call my own. And she looked at me softly. She didn’t touch me because she knows how I respond to over stimulation, and she didn’t say anything because she knows I cannot hear. But she was there, softly, she was present. And as she held me in her gaze, and as I had been weighed down by a lifetime of pointless crisis, she lifted the weight so I may breathe  a moment. And as I turned my head and I gasped for air and was in a dream moment, a crippled skinless thing, wretched. Picked up the weight and allowed a moment of peace from the deafening hurling, screaming, shouting, screaming, screaming, screaming clitoris, the screaming billboard, the screaming children, the screaming of the sickness that is settled over our culture, over my life that blinds or blackens or tints everything into different colours of fucking.
In the spirit of how I remember you, you who never was. I tried to find you in the bottle. I tried to sweep you under the rug. I tried to find you in the back of the couch with the change, lighters, bugs. All luminous and naked and pure in the sense…
Depending of what fucking pure is. In the sense of the mind it comes, a lightness, clean, un touched, untouchable.
But really?
Purity in the sense of, of the earth, yes, but also of the self. The true self that always returns to the centre. A self that is compromised but return return return. When you jump, hold onto the feeling. Ready, set, go.
Last nights dream was strange, I was dieing as I woke up I felt the bullet go through the back of my head, my teeth, and since I felt it I thought I might live but I was holding the baby.
2.
How is it that it has been projected onto me, into me around me, that my sexuality is so skewed that I am afraid of my children? That it is misfiring so badly that sometimes I am in a room with them and their bodies and bam the trigger goes off and i go out. A lovely scar, sweetheart, just breathe and it will retire. Sexuality, the body, and attempting to crush it all down and make baths. Beautiful curving ones for us all to walk on. Repression comes strong and rancid raving because it is the worst thing that can be done to us. Among the worst, but i don’t want to view the collection on Valentines day. And it is happening right now somewhere near here and its living in the shadow of us all and its difficult if not impossible to line its subtleties with logical boundaries. We need better communities where children are educated about abuse. Dont get in someones car, just isn’t practical enough in terms or real time real world. They need people they can speak to outside of their family because this is where the abuse usually happens. And they know instinctually (even when its not) that they cannot communicate this to these people, who they overall do not want to hurt, not to hurt someone you love like you have been hurt. Even to tell them. They are not safe and they are not going to be heard. And we deserved better. And they deserve better. Lucky we are so good at what we do.
Tomorrow will be a new day when we can say that all our sons and all our daughters are safe. Safe from being victims, safe from being perpetrators, safe, safe, safe. You are not alone. The world is on your side and above and below you are loved.

 

 

 

 

 

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Addiction   – Dee J. Stuart-Walker

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I have an online addiction. It’s available 24/7 and it’s free. I actively engage in it, in private and in public. It fills my mind with possibilities, it arouses curiosity, it stimulates me, I see new ideas, I gain experience and the best part is I use my largest organ to do it all! Perfect foreplay.

Many of you reading this indulge in my newly discovered addiction. In fact millions of people worldwide do it!

My addiction – Twitter. Or as Abbott calls it ‘electronic graffiti’. I love Twitter’s brevity and catchiness. It makes you think more and say less. It is a forum for parody and puns. And it flexes its muscles in the arena of politics. Active shirt fronting of Tones is currently in full swing. Putin would be proud!

Twitter is an ultra-bright spotlight under which the Abbott regime has been analysed, satirised and deconstructed by the ‘ordinary people’. The humour and wit abound on Twitter about the twit running the country and his Cabinet of The Apes. The message is clear in the toppling of the Newman government – never underestimate the power of the people.

The humour on Twitter is wonderful. And engaging. Who’d have thunk there were so many clever and funny ‘ordinary’ people out there? As a lover of language I thrive on the Twitter word parlance and the laughter it causes. I am hooked just for that.

So I admit I am in the initial euphoric ‘love’ phase with Twitter but on this Valentine’s Day 2015 I hope it’s an everlasting union.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Two New Songs and a Fairytale – Cate Taylor

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Choice

I have woken up stargazing

For these women are amazing

Generous in their words and works

Inviting others to the stage

 

The fires that you start

With your minds and with your art

Ignite in us the courage

To tell stories from the heart

 

Chorus

Comedians, singers,

Activists, writers,

Designers, mothers,

Doctors, all-nighters,

Bloggers and shockers,

Bold fire-lighters,

Ashes to ashes,

Oh how you unite us

Thank you, thank you for daring

 

Where have I been til now?

My first mentors knew not how

But I’m listening up and choosy

In the choices I empower

 

Music, language, dance

Showing up, taking chances

Daring greatly, making time

For our creative romances

 

In Total Darkness or in a Very Large Room, Very Quietly

Connection in our openness

Humour in our confessions

Amazed at your dynamisms

Let fly our imperfections

A life where I do what I want?

And give my loves to others?

Where money doesn’t choose my path?

Where money doesn’t cross my heart?

 

Hadn’t noticed money ruled me so

Felt I was free and self-directed

But am I really doing what I want?

What me have I rejected?

 

Have been in a dark room of sorts

Not daring to look at what could be

But through the windows of my walls

I find other ways to do and be. I live, I see

 

I can write and teach, learn, perform

I can tour, speak, host and birth

I can give, be one of these women I admire

Get more from myself in my time on Earth

 

Who taught me to settle for less

And why the fuck did I listen?

 

I may have another six, seven-year lifetimes

I can start anything in this time!

 

I can continue my work as a singer songwriter

A writer of stories and journeys and time

A creative rising, talents evolving,

Meeting entirely new ones in time

Gutted 

Once upon a time there was a young girl called Juniper who lived in a house with her family and lots and lots of books. Juniper was not well and had to spend the greater part of her day in bed. She loved to read and she loved her cousin Vi who would sometimes come to stay during the school holidays. She didn’t love Vi’s taste in literature however.

Every morning during her stays, Vi would wheel in the mobile library and select a book for Juniper and every morning after Vi left the room, Juniper would disregard the book offered her and reach across to choose one of her own liking.

She would open the first page and begin the routine of summoning an image of Morgan Freeman siting on the end of her bed and smiling at her. Once she had convincingly carried her imagination to a place beside Freeman, she would silently read the words hearing them in his soothing voice.

One day Juniper decided to write a letter to Morgan and confess her love of him and her ritual of being with him in literary union each morning. She went on to tell him of her passion for words and dreams of one day meeting him. What she didn’t know however, was that Vi had an equally intimate regard for Freeman and plans of her own for real life contact.

Because of that, there were certain events playing out that neither girl was aware of. Vi had in fact written her own letter to Morgan telling him about her passion for literature and all things Morgan Freeman. She went on to embellish several detail of her own life one of them being that she was a budding actress but had had to put her career on hold as she was full time carer for her dying cousin who she nursed in their home in Carlton, Melbourne.

And because of that, when both letters arrived at Morgan’s home on the same day, baring the same return address, but from two different senders, he was very curious to know their contents. What is going on here? He wondered.

Until finally, he realised he was receiving letters of a fabricated nature. He was so amused and taken by the gestures that he decided to join the game. He wrote each of the girls a letter of his own, requesting a visit to their home in person, but he asked that it be kept strictly secret from absolutely everyone so media wouldn’t get wind of it…

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Imogen Newhouse – Skeletons in my mother’s closet

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

“If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.” George Bernard Shaw.

I don’t want to write about death. Perhaps, the problem is more that I seem to want to write about death. It somehow feels a safer topic and infinitely more comfortable than attempting to confront, reconcile and define the eclectic compartments of my life and package them into a neat little ‘message’. I’m not a blogger, choosing an quotidienne topic and rattling off 300 words in between prettily filtered photos from an SLR isn’t something I’ve ever done. I don’t even use twitter of instagram. In general,  I’m pretty terrible at being young in the conventional sense, although I feel, ironically, that I am improving at it with age. 

But still, I feel that for someone who doesn’t particularly care about the finite nature of her own existence, I am haunted by death
More specifically, I am haunted by the dead. I don’t see ghosts and I don’t hold sayences (although, btw, my friend has it on good authority from her Fillipono mother that you should not mess with that shit), but I am haunted.
I’ve been surprised, over the last year, to meet three different young people who work in the same (youth run) organisation who had a friend their age die in or shortly after high school. I’ve not had to deal with that with anyone I’m close to, which I’m not shy in saying I think i’m lucky for. But in two and a half years, my mum’s only sibling died in hospital after an infection traveled to his already weakend heart, then my dad’s heart decided to announce boldly that it hadn’t been gastric reflux causing him pain for the past two years and that actually, his arteries were well and truly chock a block thank you very much. Unfortunately it did this in a fairly dramatic, tantrum like manner that resulted in his imminent death. Seriously arteries, even if you felt neglected after doctors continually dismissed the symptoms you were producing, better manners and a gentler warning would be nice, kthanks?
Grandma’s heart did the same thing less than a year later, a week after I came home. The sudden death of  94 year old, theoretically shouldn’t feel particularly tragic. But trust grandma, who for as long as I’d known her had died her hair bright red. She didn’t die in bed or on her armchair, but slumped spectacularly over a small table on the back verandah, wearing a dressing gown she hated and striped “wicked witch of the west” style knee high socks pulled up covered in slippers. My uncle’s imminent death was announced to me over the phone, my fathers by my mother’s unexpected and solitary appearance at my front door, and my grandmothers by the view of striped socks through the glass panes of her back door. The next evening is the only time I remember drinking to get drunk. And I did it with Sherry, of all things, what grandma and, until his death over a decade earlier, grandpa had drank each evening.
Death can really be quite funny. There are some hilarious moments I’d love to share with you, because without them, I feel the crushing weight of loss hanging over me without a purpose or outlet. So let’s talk about death. Let’s talk about death like we talk about sex, like we talk about chocolate or the Grammies. It’s part of life and for crying out loud, it’s always better to do just that than crumble from the inside out because we feel that people are scared to hear about what we’re feeling.
So next time, I’ll share with you the good, bad and the hilarious of my personal experiences with death and grief over the past few years and maybe you can laugh with me. Maybe you’ll think I’m a little nuts. Either option is infinitely better than the prospect of being haunted.
“Crushing truths perish from being Acknowledged”- Albert Camus

 

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Procrasti-parenting and Gunnas – Klara Hansen

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Procrasti-parenting 

I procrastinate. My preferred media are tele and games. Better yet, watching tele while playing games. My perfect morning is sitting under the giant umbrella in the backyard, drinking coffee, smoking, watching/listening to Shameless while playing Hay Day. I couldn’t be happier. It sure beats sitting in front of my computer writing my thesis.

There are a multitude of forms of procrastination that loom large. The dishes, the laundry, the pets, MKR. If I have sucked all of these dry I turn to the kids. ‘Oh, dear, I haven’t spent enough time with the kids. I better take them to the zoo/movies/pool/Mum’s/the museum’. They couldn’t care less but it sure beats sitting in front of my computer writing my thesis.

Procrasti-parenting can be fun and it is easily justified. It is the great unquenchable thirst of life, society and family. Nothing is wasted if you procrasti-parent. The kids benefit, responsibilities are fulfilled and only I know there is no virtue in it.

Almost everything would be better if I didn’t procrasti-parent. I might be a better parent and I probably wouldn’t even be so fat.

An Ode to Gunnas

Sit loudly in the black room

Talk shit that goes somewhere

Be held by nada

Warm yourself by the glow of each other’s anxiety

Meaty thoughts launch momentum

Fairy tales are bolstered by Brian Eno

Chants for the 21st century doer

Lists, apps, challenges: brain bootcamp

Not ‘gunna’ anymore

(I’ll be the one in the ball gown and Amy Winehouse wig, standing in my caravan, listening to Elvis while pumping out the next Anna Karenina)

 

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The birthday cards never written – Nicci

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Dear Nana,

Spain is over rated.

When we made the agreement that I was to go to Spain rather than come home for your funeral, I didn’t think you would actually die. But you did and I did and Spain is over rated.

I would rather you be here bitching and whining about how you don’t like being old and missing Pop than see the shadow that comes over Mum’s face when she wants to show you something and realises you are no longer here.

So come back, all is forgiven. Happy 101st and I hope Pop is treating you well.

Love Nicci.

 

Dear Dad,

I didn’t know how to celebrate your birthday so I baked this cake.

As I creamed the butter and sugar, beat in the eggs and flour, I thought of Christmas 2011 and the time we spent together, just the two of us, while the rest of the family were away. I loved that time as I had you all to myself – something rare and prized among such a large family.   It was that time together that made me want to move back to Melbourne to be amongst the family again. You always wanted me to home, I’m just sad that you didn’t live to see it.

Happy birthday Dad – here’s the cake, made with love and happy memories, for you and the ants at your graveside.

Love Nic, your number 6 daughter.

 

Dear Jesse,

Happy birthday my beautiful, beautiful boy. Funny how I still call you ‘boy’ even though you are grown and towered over me.

Yesterday, I thought of our holiday in Italy– your wide eyed staring at the African traders selling knockoff bags and scarves, stuffing your face with one pizza after another and hiding your panic at not being able to understand what people were saying around you. I remember, when given the choice of seeing yet another church or going to play, you chose the church because you knew how much I loved the architecture. It was then that I saw the glimmer of what others would come to know once you got through all the teenage crap. I hope you realised how special and loved you were and that I miss you everyday.

So happy 21st my Best Jess, say hello to Dad for me and glide among the churches of Florence and think of me.

Nic xxx

PS, I brought you cake – it’s your birthday and you must have cake. Some things never change.

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How I met John So (ex mayor of Melbourne) – Rene De La Soyo

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

To be published in “You Don’t Even Know How Ridiculous Your Life Really Is”

I use to live illegally on the top floor at a bar I was about to open with two of my best friends at the time, Dennis Ropar and Vladik Kelner. Dennis, Vlad and me were all from a similar Eastern European background and therefore heavy drinkers which amongst some other reasons is why we called the bar “Eurotrash”

In Eurotrash our duties were divided… Dennis was the artist, in charge of interior design and decoration, I was for music and entertainment and Vlad was the host and all relevant bar stuff. Our walls were full of Denise’s pop art paintings that he would promote and sell by giving people endless viewing tours. He sold a lot pieces this way and let me just say that there was no way you could escape his enormous ego when he was showing off and trying to lure you into buying one.

Our builder Janko, also with a European background, was in the building on a daily basis working on stuff with his team. We pushed him really hard without paying him.  We had to open this epic establishment, to start making some money so we could pay him and all others we owed at the time. Janko is a very skilled builder and therefore did maintenance in many surrounding restaurants such as Dragon Boat, Dragon Palace, West Lake etc… He was a good friend with the mayor of Melbourne, the honourable John So, who was the secret owner of Dragon Boat and Dragon Palace. John is known for appearing in funky art related TV ads to promote Melbourne and people were quite fond of him.

He is a great lover of art and was always interested to see what was going on in his city so Janko promised to invite him to experience this art bar “cultural centre” we were destined to open.

My room at the back of the top floor was the only room with a computer so we would also use it as an office. So, on one easy and quiet day, I was seated in my room behind the locked door minding my own business flipping through my favourite porn categories trying to find something I could wank on.  Finally got comfortable and started enjoying myself when suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was Janko saying “are you here?” in a loud voice. “Hey Janko” I replied, “How are you?”… “C’mon out” he said, “Open the door, I want you to meet someone”… Give me 10 minutes and I’ll come down” I said, with my cock in my hand, in the hope that I could finish what I started.  “No! You got to come out now” he said “I really need you to meet someone”… “Ok Ok, I’m coming (kinda) give me a sec” thinking he wanted to introduce me to someone from back home, his friend or something. I slowly walked to the door trying to button my pants with a hard on and pulling my T-shirt down so it didn’t show. Got to the door and who was there? The mayor of Melbourne, the honourable John So. He extended his hand with a smile on his face and said hi. I paused, looked at my hand which had just been directly on my dick and proceeded to shake hands with him and saying “It is an honour to meet you sir, you don’t even know how close we are” … to which he said “Yes I really love art and everybody that brings it to Melbourne CBD”. I said “I meant we have an even deeper relationship which is a bit hard to explain”. We both smiled having completely different thoughts in our heads. I showed him around, it felt a bit awkward but he seemed to enjoy it. The farewell handshake was way easier.  SORRY JOHN!!! There was no way out.

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Bad Present – Lesley Howard

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Have you ever been given a present from a nearest and dearest and not had any affinity with the gift? Obviously, it is the sentiment of giving, not the gift itself, that is paramount but it can put the receiver in a bit on the spot. If you have ever been in this position you can imagine my delight today at finding a use for such a gift, even if it was not the one for which it was intended.

I have short hair and I am not averse to it getting wet in the shower. My friend of the low flowing auburn locks and over 40 years of friendship, bestowed upon me the gift of a shower cap. As shower caps go it is a lovely one. She swears by them. At the moment of presentation, however, she looked anxiously at my hair and at me and inquired as to whether it would, in fact, be of use. “But of course it would” was my delighted reassurance, “use them all the time”.

We are now two years on from that moment. The beautifully crafted shower cap is retained but remains in its packaging. However, today, it was brought to my attention that a shower cap could be a potentially useful way of reminding oneself not to get distracted from a task one had taken on, even, or maybe especially, if that task is onerous. In short, stick a shower cap on your head until the job is done. If distractions to the task in hand occur, such as nipping out to the supermarket, answering emails or challenging for leadership, the shower cap retained upon your head will be a constant reminder of the underlying commitment to the original task. It will also signal to others that something is going on.

I guess it is up to the shower cap wearer to navigate that issue.

So, I have come home with a possible new skill to try out. In summary, the task was to write something, anything, and submit it before 10pm not a minute after. Lots of self talk about why I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t need to but eventually a commitment was made. Did the vodka, lime and lemon contribute to the “give it a go, nothing to lose attitude”? Didn’t hurt.

Was I distracted completing the process? Yes. Husband rang, needed lift and to download his day. Dinner prepared in preparation for influx of sporting children. Timetable checked to determine when influxes would occur. Glass of wine.

Did I don the aforementioned shower cap? No, and you know why? Finding it would have been yet another distraction from the task in hand. So would the ensuing discussion with husband and influxing offspring. But the thought was there.

Twitter @adropex

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