Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

So she’s sitting on the chaise lounge on the balcony, overlooking Pall Mall. The drunkards and patrons downstairs are stumbling towards the tram stop. Like an angry mosquito, the tram driver rings his bell signalling for the drunken thugs to move off the tram lines so he can get to the next stop.

She can hear the honky tonk piano playing, and the boozy punters and working girls chorusing in any key they choose. She can’t see them but she knows Maisy, Dot, Pearl and Colleen are dancing for their dinners. She’d heard there had been a lucky strike at Golden Square and the Mayor had warned her to expect hungry, and thirsty punters. Well she knew that hunger comes in many forms. She put to work some of her newest, youngest, prettiest and healthiest girls. There had been problems in Ballarat and the Mayor believed (and possibly she would have too, should she care to think beyond her business) that if you kept the diggers fed, boozed and bedded, there would be no talk of rebellion in Roslyn Park, no disputing the authorities while basic needs were met.

Josephine, also known more infamously around Bendigo as Madam Bellefleur, had money to make, girls to keep honestly working, plying their custom to pleasure politicians, police and panners. The warm, smoke-filled air of the saloon below mingled with the cooling summer dusk, and filtered up to the balcony. The young, wizened woman felt a renewed sense of purpose. She had never imagined herself enjoying her current position. She had more money at her disposal than she had ever dreamt of. She had come by it in ways which made her hard and worldly for her age. But that was a fate much better than starving back in Ireland or accepting the low place reserved for women of her birth and race. And she was proud she now looked after other girls, steered them right, and away from the problems she had met earlier on. After all, there were many men here, hoping to find their fortune, who needed comfort at the end of their day’s toil. Her girls were clean mostly, and knew how to pleasure the high and low, the rich, the poor, the English, American, French, and Italians. The Chinese knew not to bother here, and the constabulary took their share of both pleasure and profits in exchange for protection.

She turned to her friend, whose figure was silhouetted in the doorway from the balcony to the front Rosette room, and guarded herself.

“Do they know you are here?” , she tried not to look directly at him.

In the folds of her full layered skirt, in a concealed pocket, she could feel the nugget brushing against her thigh.

He scratched his beard, and looked towards the fading sunset beyond the wrought iron balcony.

“Now, Jo, how would they know I’m here? I stowed away on the coal coach and came up the laneway.” He paused when there was no reply, and looked more intently at her. “What are you so worried about? That I might tarnish your good name?” He snickered, then laughed unreservedly.

Jo saw in him something she most detested in men, in anyone for that matter; arrogance. “He thinks he’s safe”, she thought. “Thinks he has less to lose than I do, thinks he’s better, more rights to a good life than I do….he thinks he’s on top.”

“It has been a long time since a man has been on top of me, Brendan Murphy. And you are certainly no match for the last one I had.”

He looked at her with a mixture of fury and injury, unsure whether to scold her and treat her like the child she was behaving like, or remind her of her place as the gold town’s purveyor of female flesh, or appeal to her better nature. Either way, he refused to be belittled by her. He strode up to her couch, tipped his beared face close to her ear and whispered “You have no idea of the delights you would be missing, Jo.”

She wheezed as she drew breath and laughed like a pipe clearing itself. One of the drunk customers below looked up and saw her talking to what looked like no one, shook his head and threw up into the street’s open drain.

He looked even more hurt than before, then laughed with her. When their laughter died down, he asked “So, Jo, when will you leave this and be with me?”

The smile drained from her face as she realised he was serious.

“You know I…well, I can’t and you wouldn’t really want me caged like that, would you?” She looked around waiting for his reaction, then continued speaking into the silence between them, while the honky tonk piano played in the salon below.

 

“You wouldn’t have a family life with me, Brendan. No children….and I’m not the right sort for you. Besides, what would happen to the girls? They need taking care of. I see no reason to change my life, Brendan. Or is it my money you are after?” She thought, from his silence, his suggestion had been genuine. “You like my freedom, my wild ways. That disappears with a wedding ring.”

 

He turned silently, and disappeared. She wouldn’t see him again, and felt the cold nugget graze her thigh again.

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I’ve got 60 minutes to write this. I’ve just returned home from Catherine Deveny’s writing master class “The Gunnas” and I’ve got to go out again in one hour.

I think one of the most important things when you take a creative enema as Catherine called it, is to get cracking. Don’t leave too much time between the enema and the motion. And I didn’t pay good money to have it wear off. “Just write something” and “aim low”, setting the bar too high only puts you off. I’m quite a literal person, so here I go.

I used to know a person who is one of only two people I have ever called a cunt. He went from being my childhood neighbor and incompetent father of his own five children to becoming my step father. He was given carte blanche by my well meaning but misguided mother to parent her three children as he deemed fit.

He was a mean, misogynistic, alcoholic cunt who frequented the pub after work every day for a drink or six and returned home to regularly put me and my two brothers down. Though not physically violent, he was extremely verbally abusive. He did this in ways that my mother seemed not to notice. Mostly when she was out of the house he’d get stuck into us, usually one on one. Accusing us of trying to deceive him or take advantage of him. Comments like being ugly, stupid, untrustworthy, unloveable, or worst of all, being like our good for nothing father were commonly spat at us. If we complained to our mother, all was denied by this bastard and we were then made to apologise to him for making a fuss over nothing.

He made up ridiculous rules such as no touching each other at the table, no eye contact with him when he wasn’t talking to you and earnest, interested eye contact when he was. You couldn’t laugh or get upset when he told you off and you could never, ever disagree with him. If he said jump, you replied how high.

He was also clever at deceiving friends and colleagues and was seen as an upstanding member of the local community. He helped coach the local junior football club, had a few friendly beers with many of the other great blokes and helped out at local fundraisers, fetes and such like.

Me and my two brothers have been affected by his abuse to some degree, as was my mother, who has said that back in the 70’s there was no option to be a single mother, it just wasn’t done. She earnestly believed a woman could not bring kids up without a man. A man was necessary to help discipline and straighten out those kids who were six, nine and 12, and always looking for a way to take advantage of any situation they could get away with.

He kicked me out of home at the age of 16, and my brother was kicked out at 18 for daring to want to go to university. None of his kids had ever gone to university, so he wasn’t going to support some other bastard’s kid at university.

Eventually he left my mother, and ran off with a younger woman. I don’t know whatever happened to him, I think he’s dead. I reckon once a cunt, always a cunt and I sincerely hope he had a shit life.

I have a reasonable relationship with my mother and have never discussed this with her as my brother has tried and it gets heated, my mother feels like she’s being abused and victimised and denies ever having been aware of such verbal abuse. It’s kind of funny now to think how something could happen right under her nose and she not believe it was happening.

I have forgiven my mother for this “invisible” abuse as it allows me to move forward. She had a terrible and cruel childhood herself, much worse than mine, so it’s no good blaming and shaming at this late stage. However, what having a cunt for a stepfather has given me is an ability to never, ever accept shit from anybody, although I will admit to a strange haunting how and again. I have a good life and a loving family whom I highly value. I have a kind partner and have taught my boys to be bloody respectful to their own partners.

 

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Stories. Where do they start? I sit amongst a pile of my parents’ photographs, pouring through their life – images of tan lines, lipstick smiles, Dad in a French beret with a painted on moustache bent over double in a fit of laughter, foreign landscapes, poses, each one snatches of a second – what am I supposed to do with these boxes of memorial trophies? What do I keep? What do I dismiss and sentence to become landfill, to dissolve into particles of dust and dirt?

I Begin.

So many photos.

So many photos.

So… many… photos

I pick up one and toss it to the floor.

It flips and flutters landing with a light ‘Thwick’ on the carpet and so the pile of  ‘Not to be kept’ begins.

It begins and grows.

The pile is scooped up and fuelled with guilt, these Kodak moments are tumbled into the wheelie bin. How callous and cruel am I chucking out their memories with the other refuse. My hand hovers, jerks goes to retrieve a photo, stops, plunges, stops, slams shut the lid!

I scoot inside, my eyes like sniffer dogs scan the room resting on objects. The scotch glass in the cabinet has a thumbprint…was that my dad’s? The dishes, the cups and saucers, the pots and pans, their DNA reside in every crack and crevice of this entire house. I turn to the chair, his favourite chair and want to see him nodding off after a family lunchtime feast. I want to see him do that stupid trick with his fingers where he extends his middle finger and the other digits fashion themselves into legs and they gallop across the table with him whinnying like a horse. I want to see my mum becoming so distracted with talk and laughter she curdles the bloody cream…I want…

Stop.>

Breathe.

Back to the photos.  I smile a little smile as whispers of their life trickles back.

A grand hotel. A woman in a blue coat. Her breath, a dragon’s puff in the cold air. “C’mon Ken hurry up, it’s freezing out here. Christine don’t roll down the hill the grass is wet. Where’s Peter Where the hell ‘s Peter?”

A twig thin boy standing on stage. His mouth open like a hungry bird leaning towards the microphone.

“Christ almighty Adrienne did you know he was going to do this?”

“No Ken”

The dining room falls silent.

A mother’s breath stops.

A pure note fills the room with angelic feather-like brightness.

A mother’s breath resumes.  A father’s heart beats plumply in his chest. 

Tanned limbs, zinc creamed nose, a semi twisted smile in front of pristine waters.

“Okay, so this is a nudist beach is it Ken?”

“Um yes..I guess it is. So I’ll only take this photo of you now and when I finish we’d better take our bathers off so we don’t look like perverts.”

“ Oh for crying out loud”

Helmet clad, oar in hand, rapids tumbling in the background.

“ I feel like an idiot. The helmet’s coming off!”

“What if you come out of the canoe, hit your head on a rock, suffer brain damage and can’t wipe your arse?”

“ Rrrright…”

The helmet stays on. The man survives.

Wedding dress bundled in arms shy of the dew heavy grass. Father and daughter walk like brolgas towards the groom

“ You look beautiful Christine. Goofy, but beautiful”

Look at this. a babe in arms, screaming and squirming in red-faced defiance. His grandfather smiling fit to burst – fuelled and plumped up with love.

So many photos.

So many photos.

So…many…photos.

These survivors of the cull are littered across the bed. Most likely they won’t survive the next generational cull, but for now they are precious.

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

We decided to meet at his apartment.  It was in an inner city Melbourne, down a laneway plastered with wannabe Banksy graffiti.  Not the ugly tags of misspent youth, but considered, crafted art.  Very hip.

He answered the door in distressed jeans, a stripy t-shirt, no shoes.

He was halfway through a glass of wine as he showed me around. His apartment was a gentle mix of intelligence and taste – floor to ceiling bookshelves, interesting pieces of Danish furniture, no clutter. I’d googled him before I arrived and seen that he’d written several books.  I spotted them in the bookshelves.

The apartment was tasteful homewares-magazine worthy. Modern, clean lines.  Not a single canvas artwork, no timber “dream” or “love” words adorning the shelves. I searched the kitchen floor for biscuit crumbs, the benches for loose paperwork, anything to suggest it was lived in. Nothing.  Even the fridge, so often a snapshot of people’s day to day bits and pieces, was stark.

As he sat to put on some shoes, I remarked on a wall.  It was a giant chalkboard neatly drawn up as a calendar.  “That’s handy” I said.  “I find it oppressive” he replied.

We walked through the city streets, him in a sportsjacket, me shivering under a too-thin cardigan. We wove until we found a trendy bar.  He sipped Rose, I clung to vodka on the rocks. He was nervous – but hid it well, and we kept to conversation that how demonstrated how clever he was.  I was also secretly in performance mode; I asked open questions, crafted the conversation to flatter him and reveal almost nothing of me.

He wanted to start a band.  He’d been a drummer for a long time but now he yearned for the stage again.  He could almost smell the gigs, he said.  No other feeling like it.

He told me he was leaving his job.  He felt like he’d done it for long enough and there are things out there that need to be explored. He was moving to South Africa.  He didn’t know when he would be back. He had no mobile phone, didn’t believe in them. He would appear again when he appeared and that would be that.

We went back to his shiny display-home apartment and he invited me in for coffee.  No nespresso here – this was a three-phase barista’s dream. I declined politely.

“It was nice to meet you” he said, kissing me on the cheek.

Back in the banksy-inspired alleyway, I turned to my boyfriend.  “How old is your dad again?” I said.  “Mid-life” he replied.

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Melanie and Fay were waiting excitedly for the other two to arrive , it was 6am and the trip to Tibooburra was going to take eleven hours from Adelaide via Broken Hill.

The Esky was packed with ice and three bottles of Verve for the journey.

Pamela and Cheryl arrived promptly at 6.30, but the surprise was that Mel had told Fay” Pamela has four wheel drive , no need to hire one” however the “ four wheel drive turned out to be a little Suzuki, they then had to cut their luggage by half.

Pamela brought with her a straw cowboy hat for each of them in different colours, and with the buzz happening they all happily doned the hats.

This was to be a trip that Fay had decided to do as a sort of pilgrimage to her birth place, Melanie wanted to go along and suggested they invite Pamela because “ she has a 4 wheel drive,” and she  in turn invited Cheryl. 

Four divorcees looking for something different to do, Cheryl announced that she had packed two packets of condoms, she said “if I cant get a root in Tibooburra with all of those cowboys there then I would never get one”, being the classic blonde bombshell we thought her chances were good.

Arriving in Broken Hill Mel had to go to a bank, she came out and whispered to Fay”don’t tell the others but the teller just told me the Tibooburra road has only just been re opened after heavy rain, and the road is not sealed for two thirds of the way.

Off they went deciding it was time to crack a champagne, so much laughter and chatter ,first stop Pack Saddle, a sheep station owned by a distant relative of Fays.

He built a road house on the roadside the only stop for the 4 hour journey between Broken Hill and Tibooburra 

Entering the the road house they saw two Old Timers sipping beer at the bar,

“where are you heading girls “said one, answering in unison they replied “Tibooburra”!

“God “ came the reply “ we’d better call ahead and warn them , they haven’t seen any lipstick up there for a while”

Cheryl took over the driving leaving Pack Saddle, Fay in front and Mel and Pamela in charge of drinks in the back seat, ten minutes out they came across a vast amount of water covering the road, “ drive over to the side “ said Fay, big mistake, they got bogged.

Cheryl got out and immediately was in  red silted mud up to her knees, you can imagine what laughter this brought about.

“Flag the next car  down” said Mel, and sure enough fifteen minutes later a truck came along, Cher flagged them to stop, out came two young cockies, stubbies in hand, “in a bit of trouble girls” “yes” came the meek reply from Cher.

They quickly wrenched the car free, many thanks were given, although by the look on Cheryls face she would have liked to pay them in kind.

The trip was completed in silence, relieved that they were freed as they did not see another car on the road for the next two hours.

Arriving at the Family Hotel in Tibooburra population eighty, two hotels, a general store, race track and hospital for the flying doctor service.

The sights to see were Bourke and Wills boat for “ the inland sea”, hoisted on a pole at the end of the main street, and  a little way out of town the abandoned gold mining equipment at Dead Horse Gulley.

The publican , named Peter Petrovic welcomed the girls and noted that they all smelt really good.

The rooms at the back of the hotel were disgusting, dirty, with beds that sank in the middle, the shared bathroom was even worse covered in mould, with a slimy shower curtain to match.

Dinner on the verandah was surprisingly first class, the chef joined them later along with half the population, a sing a long started at around nine o clock

Fay retired early, leaving the others to enjoy the atmosphere of “ The Bush”

Earlier Fay met a distant relative Brian Blore who offered to take her out to their old homestead Wittabrinna in the morning.

Wittabrinna had been compulsory acquired by the Parks and wild life commission who were now taking over the “ Corner Country in North West NSW to preserve the native flora and fauna. 

Fay slept soundly until she was woken by the screams of delight and singing from the front bar at around 1 am.

In the morning she tried to dress not waking Melanie , but Mel was one to never miss a thing sat bolt upright in bed and proceeded to tell Fay about the night before, especially about the butch bar maid at the other hotel, “ Oh you should see her Fay, Vicki is her name and she is so handsome”

After a memorable trip out to Wittabrinna, they decided it was time to go to the Gymkhana  at the race course, not being fans of rodeo they wandered back to the main street, “ lets show Fay Vicki at the other pub” said Mel.

So in they went, the publican was called Neville ,no Vicki in sight, but two guys standing at the end of the bar.

“What’s your drink girls “ said Neville , ‘Champagne ‘came the reply, “ oh gee I think there’s a bottle in the cellar some where.

Anyway an hilarious two hours ensued jokes were told and singing started, when Neville found out that Fay was born in Tibooburra he  asked her maiden name, he then rang another distant relative of hers and said to him” you’d better get into town Fay Rowetts here with some good looking sheilas”

Donald Robertson then drove the two hour trip into town from Cameron’s Corner.

He and Fay met later at the dance out at the racecourse, on meeting he said to Fay” What happened to you ? you used to be so skinny” ( Fay was now quite a big girl) and Donald Robertson used to be very handsome, she now looked at an old man with a big pot belly, so she replied “ what happened to you , you used to look like Elvis Presley” “yes’ he replied “ the girls used to have to take a ticket and wait in  line”

The dance was fantastic the men using the pumping action on the ladies arms to whirl them around the floor dodging the kids who were skidding on the freshly scattered saw dust, aboriginal girls sitting shyly in the corner, most were asked to join in and dance , a fabulous sight. 

Again Fay retired early walking back to the pub, realizing when she got there that the whole town was at the dance, she thought Oh no I’ll have to go back and get the keys, but after trying the front door of the pub it opened, all the liquor on display for the taking, hey but this was the outback that would never happen.

Next morning Fay and Mel were woken by a gentle knock at the door, “Come in”, in walked Cheryl sheepishly explaining that she was in love

“Who with”asked Mel, the reply left them flabberghasted,” Vicki” said Cher.she went onto to say that after the dance a group went back to Vickis house and Vicki took Cher to the front room and danced with her followed by a kiss, “ Ive never felt like this before “

Fay the told Cher that they would be leaving today, a day earlier than planned, Cher said “ can I go and say goodbye to Vicki first.”

Car packed all occupants in a slight shock that the man eater of the group was now “ in Love with a gay woman,’ they went around to Vicki’s place , a long passionate farewell occurred on the foot path between Vicki and Cher.

“ God”  said Pamela to Cher “you had to come all the way to Tibooburra to find out you are a lesbian”

On the ay back the talk turned to another hilarious episode planning the wedding, we were all to be bridesmaids.

“ How will I tell Dad” said Cher , who lived with her eighty five year old father, “ just introduce her as Vic, he wont know the difference”

Foot note:

Cher arranged to meet Vicki in Broken Hill two months later, her car packed with red roses, champagne and a lobster in the Esky.

When she came back after the weekend away we asked “ so what was it like?”

Cher looked sad and said it was awful , Vicki  flirted with other women at the pub all night

“She’s just like a man”!!

So you’re not a lesbian? “I don’t think so” said Cher meekly

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

(Apologies to Bob Dylan)

When your breath gets shallow, and you can’t feel your feet

When the shadows creep into your sunlit street.

When your thoughts turn to dust and your tongue is dry,

When your sword is blunt and clouds fill the sky

When the buzz of a fridge is all you can hear

When you’re standing alone at the end of a pier

When your baby is crying and the bills aren’t paid,

and your lover’s run off with the chamber maid.

When your childhood memories of lush green hills

turn to concrete rivers and plastic thrills

When you see the ball in the back of your net,

the cold air cuts through, and you shiver and sweat.

When your hero gets shot and your words get twisted

and you dig all day till your fingers are blistered.

You’ve walked as far as you can with the sun beating down.

Your thirsty and tired and can’t hear a sound.

The birds start to circle and you fall to your knees,

There’s smoke in your brain and you cough and you wheeze

Your chest start to crumble and you pull at your hair

When you can’t recall if you’re here or there

You’ll want to escape, you’ll want to shut down

You’ll just want to run, disappear out of town

 

You’ll chase the bright lights and the rainbow swells

You’ll look to the promise of big silver bells,

You’ll disappear to the mountains or fly up the pole,

You’ll dive into the river or a rabbit hole.

You’ll reach for a branch or your mothers hand.

You’ll lose yourself in another’s plan

You’ll hope for the wind to blow the right way,

You’ll jump on the ships sailing out of the bay.

You’ll want for a pretty girl to blow you a kiss,

You’ll look to the eyes of the ones you miss

You’ll do anything you can to get far away

but just remember, in the same park you play

 

There’s a weary young woman who’s looking for a line

to make sense of the colours, to know she’s not blind

There’s a sea sick lover leaning over the stern

reading poems to the ocean from a heart that burns

There’s an out of work husband, on a lonely park bench

humming a tune to make things make sense

There’s an old army nurse, walking into the cold

reciting a verse her mother once told

There’s a teenage couple, with an old english novel

connecting the dots to get over their trouble

An old lady on a bus is writing down jokes

that she keeps in the pocket of her petticoat.

There’s plenty more people who would only choke

if they couldn’t feel the words that someone else wrote

If they couldn’t understand the land that they stand on

To point to a sign and keep walking strong

To carry a flag, have their wings beat

To laugh at the sky, feel their bodies in sync

 

So when your breath gets shallow and there’s dirt in your mouth.

When the tide’s pulled out and your birds flown south.

Just stand in the mud with the blood on your face

take a deep breath and fill up the space

Feel the drums start, and the trumpets blow

Pick up your pen, and write what you know.

 

Tom’s on twitter @thomsorr

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Last night I went to my friend’s house for her family dinner. She has a family dinner every week – always on Sunday. The whole family turn up. She’s Catholic. It’s a Catholic thing apparently. I’ve been to a few of these Sunday night dinners in my time and have mixed feelings. Like being at a wedding in a Synagogue. Is it a religious event or a cultural event? Do I close my eyes for grace? Do I join in the prayer? Do I say ‘peace be with you?’ Do I keep my views about god quiet? I’m fascinated and happy to be part of it, but at the same time I don’t get it and I feel out of place.

Anyway, whilst sitting there feeling out of place I looked around the room. My eyes settled on some family photos. Photos of my friend’s kids. Mostly casual shots in the park or at the beach – standard happy snaps. Some framed, some stuck to the wall. She has four kids, a boy and three girls. There were about five pictures of each – about twenty in total (I’m good with maths), but here’s the thing – they were all spectacular pictures. I only have one child, and about a thousand pictures, but none were as good as the worst of these twenty snaps.

So, when there was a break in proceedings – after the entre (a fish terrine, actually in the shape of a fish), I casually asked about the pictures. I was suspicious. I was on the hunt for scandal. Come on? How could ALL these pictures look so good? Just the right light, smiling warmly, eye’s open, not a pimple in sight. No snot. Seriously, no snot.

It didn’t take long to find my hidden treasure. The photos were photo-shopped, they were airbrushed. My friend was a keen amateur photographer and she had airbrushed out any imperfections. Gold. I had a sense of outrage and simultaneous envy – I wanted to scream at the nerve of faking family photos, but if that didn’t work I wanted some fake photos myself.

Of course my next thought was: So if the photos are fake, is everything else fake too? Are all the ‘peace be with you’s’ fake? Was the terrine really home made? And what message does it send the kids – you’re not good enough the way you are?

Now my head was starting to spin – maybe I’m too precious? So what’s the big deal with a little polishing of the brass? Who cares? Professional family portraits are often airbrushed, why not the family happy snaps too? Isn’t it just harmless fun? She’s proud of her kids, she wants everyone else to admire them too. Part of me said get over it. But part kept nagging. If we let ourselves get carried away with faking goodness, do we lose sight of achieving goodness? If I can just airbrush my kid’s lives, can I cut back on some of my efforts at being a good parent?

It got me thinking about all the things I heard about my friend’s kids and said about my own kid. Obviously, and without doubt, all parents fake a little, exaggerate a little, create some glory and reflect in it. But shouldn’t there be a line in the sand. Shouldn’t there be a point at which you know you have gone too far – a point at which you have abandoned reality and stepped through the looking glass?

If the photos are fake, what about the glowing report from the ballet teacher? Did her son really make the state cricket team? What about her achievements at work that I’d heard so much about – and admired.

Where did the reality end and the airbrushing begin?

Worse still, I started to think about why I cared. I couldn’t escape the thought that I was too precious. I know in my heart I wanted those pictures to be fake. I knew they made me feel bad by comparison. Now I felt good by comparison because I knew they were fake.

I had to ask myself: am I fake? Well partly, yes. I exaggerate. I boost my own achievements. I boost my son’s. But do I cross a line? Is there a line? Is any faking crossing a line? Make-up, nice clothes, hair dye, botox? Faking is normal. It’s okay. So why did the airbrushed family photos bother me so much? Why was her faking bad and my faking good?

By this stage of the dinner I felt trapped. Trapped in uncertainty. Trapped in a sense of confusion. I had indigestion- and it wasn’t the fish shaped terrine.  Am I anti-faking or not? A little is okay, too much is bad. My line in the sand is okay, but my friend’s is not? Am I a hypocrite?

Finally as the desert arrived I settled. I decided to sit on the fence. A little faking is okay, but too much and the emphasis in life might end up being on the airbrushed product rather than the real thing. Too little and you might feel just too shitty. It’s a strong person who doesn’t have to keep up with the Jones’s just a little.

But there is one ingredient that seems essential. Without it the faking becomes the goal, rather than just a little bit of fun. And that key ingredient is self-awareness. You have to know when you are faking. You have to have a tinge of embarrassment. You have to fight the urge to fake. I’ll know when I’ve gone too far if I’m vehemently defending my fake life when I get caught, rather than screaming “I’m so embarrassed, you got me!” and laughing.

So I walked away at the end of the night. Full. Satisfied. Crisis resolved. I figured it’s okay to fake, as long as you feel embarrassed and cop the shame when you’re caught. Oh, and if you’re going to airbrush a family photo, maybe leave just a little snot.

sellen2407@gmail.com

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Once upon a time there was a dead man called Harvey. Harvey hated being dead. He didn’t get to do anything good. He felt alone, depressed. All the other dead guys just laid about in graves, the smug bastards, content to just rest. But Harvey wasn’t like that. He want to be part of the world, be active. He’d been terribly active when he was alive. He’d climbed Kilimanjaro, he’d eaten walrus in the Arctic, he’d made love to beautiful women. Now he didn’t even have a cock. In fact, all he really had was bones. Just dried old bones. He tried to hang out with the living, but frankly, they just depressed him. Once, a little girl told him he was too thin, and she didn’t like his empty eye sockets. He was crushed.

Everyday he’d sit by the cemetery gates and look out at the world as it moved on without him. He was stuck in a time that wasn’t relevant any more. And he felt himself slipping away. Not just physically, most of his flesh had rotted off years ago, but emotionally. Like he was fading, becoming transparent. I mean being just a skeleton, he pretty much was transparent, in the sense that you could stand in front of him and see what was behind him.

One day, as he was mooning about, he noticed the glimmer of metal under a pile of rubbish. He snuck out across the road, and pulled aside the old plaster and faded curtains, and found a rusted bicycle. It was old, but when he picked it up, he knew this was it. It was an ancient thing, barely rideable, but then, he thought, so am I. So he climbed aboard, and took his first wobbling ride down the street. He gained speed, and soon felt the wind whistling through his ribs, his vertebrae stretching and contracting as he flew down the road.

His world changed. Soon, he found himself whizzing about everywhere. He was mobile! He bought a jaunty top hat, and would nod to people on the street. Sometimes they waved. Sometimes they sat with their mouths open, but they all noticed him. He felt more real, more solid than he had in years.

He grew the courage to wake some of the other dead. He showed them his bicycle. The very ancient ones shook their skulls and went back to sleep, but some of the little dead children giggled and begged him for a turn. Soon he was dinking the little ones around. A whole world of joy had been right at his bony toes. The kids laughed and held his hand. Even the very shy ones were soon tugging on his metacarpals to ask quietly if they might go out on his marvellous bicycle. They’d been lonely, the young dead. And now they were having fun.

He thought about this for some time. He’d hit on something. And soon he had a great idea. A big idea. He’d welcome the new ones. He knew it was tough for those kids who’d recently died. They didn’t have parents or friends. He organised a welcoming committee for all the babies and children who’d died because their parents wouldn’t vaccinate, or didn’t watch them when they were playing the near pool, or on the road.

All the other dead children loved the idea and soon rallied around the cause. They made up new games, and dressed in bright ribbons that they found on flowers left around the graveyard.

But the happiest of all was Harvey. At last, he’d found peace. A real peace. A peace more fulfilling than sleeping away eternity. A reason for being. And it was wonderful.

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I used to drive trucks. It was kinda boring. Mile after mile of endless roads, never stopping, well only for fuel, food and toilet breaks. One day a mate said “come drive buses” and I was hooked. No need to load this freight and I had some company while I drove. It was outback Queensland in the early 90’s and miners lived on the coast and worked 250 klms inland. So I drove them to work in my bus out along gravel roads through the brigalow scrub. The afternoon shift, underground miners. The toughest men I’ve ever met. Tougher than the truckies I shared the road with, although many more truckies died than miners. The miners all seemed to die in big lots in huge explosions. The truckies seemed to always die alone in fiery wrecks plunging over lonely canyons.

Nothing I saw or did in that wild west time ever prepared me for driving in Melbourne. Driving late night buses in a town that got all its weather from either the desert, Antarctica or Adelaide. It’s a big wide flat city with roads that change names every few kilometres and no noticeable natural landmarks like the east coast cities.

One day some smart bugger had a smart idea to make a thing called a smart bus and had it run a big orbit around all the multi cultural tasselled fringe suburbs of outer Melbourne. During the day time it is a slow but popular way to get around. Convenient is a word I hear a lot.

Once the sun goes down the service becomes free. Not because it’s free but because nobody pays. Fare evasion is the norm and the seats begin to fill with the people of the night. WADWALs or White Angry Drunks Without A Licence are usually the most feared. They are the most likely to physically attack a driver. Those people you see on Police TV shows who lose their licences. Yeah, were stuck with them now. Another group equally feared are the sub-18 teens. The night buses are their sport. The drivers are targets, sitting ducks. With little support, no back up, alone at the wheel weaving through the local playgrounds of these gangs of bored teens. They are as big as grown men but with the brains of young boys.

Attacks are frequent and bus companies are either old school ignorant and uncaring or new school touchy feely to the point of cartoonish empathy, OHS that is an arse covering exercise and cliched safety posters. Employers spectacularly unskilled at helping traumatised drivers. It helps to hire steering wheel attendants who are crazy to begin with. Those on the edge, to drive around the edge.  Bottles, bricks, rocks, stones, paint, eggs, fruit. Every missile, every insult, they come flying into our faces. Spit, punches, ninja kicks, busted windows and doors.

Why the hell do I do this job?  Am I “just asking for it?” Every night at work for me is reclaim the night. When a woman hops on my bus late at night and they see a woman driver, I can often see a look of relief as we greet each other. I think I make her feel safe in an unsafe space. I think I can make a difference. Women need to feel safe and respected wherever they go. This still does not happen. This is why I am here.

Go Back

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

I like girls. No, not like that. This is not my big moment of coming out or anything. I just want to put on the record up front that I like girls – after all I am one, I have a wonderful mum and some amazing sisters, a gorgeous daughter and a good number of fantastic female friends.

But I love men. I love their energy, their enthusiasm, the way they radiate strength and leadership, their keen desire to solve problems. I love the way they don’t take themselves so seriously, yet at other times can be absolutely driven to achieve their goals and dreams.

I love their sense of humor and the way they laugh and joke with each other. Men aren’t generally critical or judgmental. Or yet again, they are … between men, the worse the insult the greater the friendship between them.

I love watching boys grow into men; I love watching men with their sons.

Men look good, they feel good and they smell good – what’s not to love?

This I know is unusual. Many women I know value their female friendships above all others. I’ve even met some who say they love their “besty” more than their husband!

Sorry girls, and this is not to say that there isn’t great things about the female of the species, but I reckon there are some things about men that are simply wonderful – and yes, sometimes better.

In many aspects of my life I have been and continue to be surrounded by men, particularly in my work. Much of this is by choice. Often I am the only girl in the room. Many times I don’t even notice that this is the case…

While my husband was one of the best choices I’ve made in my life and my son was an amazing gift, I have also, without realizing it, choreographing it, or planning it, surrounded myself with men in so many other areas of my life – Doctor, Dentist, Personal Trainer, Hairdresser, Chiropractor, Accountant,  … hell even my cleaning lady is a bloke! If I could find a man who waxes legs, I’d be there in a flash.

Currently I work as the manager of a football club, and in my working community I have around me 60 or so players, several coaches, a president and a committee – all men. Male dominated – you betcha, but I love it!

I like the simplicity of the way men talk. Facts, not stories. For example “ The tap broke, but I got a washer and replaced it. It’s fixed.” Man talk. Women on the other hand would tell the whole story. That’s just how it is. A woman would probably say “Anyway, I was getting ready to go out, and of course I had to clean my teeth, so I turned on the tap and it was an enormous disaster because it just spurted out everywhere and I couldn’t turn it off, so I had to go and turn it off at the mains, and fortunately I knew where the spare washers were, and I remembered how to replace it, and it took 15 minutes and I ended up running late, but at least it’s fixed…..”

So, especially when I am working with men, I try to remember to talk like them. Just the facts please lady. Otherwise they’ve lost interest by the time you get past “Anyway, I was just ….” If you look closely enough, you can actually see their eyes start to glaze over if you don’t cut to the chase.

They don’t think so much … this doesn’t mean they are stupid or not clever. They are just much more decisive. They choose easily, they make a decision and then they relax. Women are much more likely to think and oscillate and think some more, then discuss and consider, then worry if they’ve made the right decision!

Men relax so much better than women. Men can actually sit on the couch, or at the pub, or on the beach and just think about nothing – now there’s a skill I wish I could master!  There are times when if you ask them what they are thinking about (incredibly some women do this often – it drives men crazy), their response is “nothing” and you know what?  They are actually thinking about …. nothing. Absolutely nothing … really and truly! They can actually do that.

Life can also be a whole lot less complicated if you are a man. Consider dress code. Recently I got an invitation that said Gentlemen: Lounge Suit, Ladies Accordingly – what is that meant to mean?? But you know what? It doesn’t matter if the dress code is Formal, Cocktail, Lounge Suit, or Smart Casual, for a man that generally means pants and some kind of shirt … every single time. For a woman it’s a whole kaleidoscope of possibilities!

Especially through my work in football, I’ve been privileged to be included in their inner sanctum. I’ve been crushed in the hugs of absolute exhilaration and achievement and I’ve also shared the tears of bewildering sorrow.  I’ve laughed and sung and hung in there alongside them to pick up the pieces when things didn’t quite go to plan.

As I said, I like women, and I could probably write another piece on why women are so wonderful – but if you want fun, laughs, simplicity, energy and honesty, grab your best man friend and go and hang out.

If the apocalypse is nigh, while many of the girls are still deciding what to wear to the finale or who they want to spend the last hours with, you’ll find me with the blokes. They’ll already be having a drink and a laugh, reminiscing about the great times we’ve had, rather than screaming in fear that its all about to end.

Follow Jo on Twitter – @jotregear

 

Go Back