All posts by Princess Sparkle

I Fucking Did It – Matthew Lyons

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Leaving Singapore or should I say running was a tough moment for me and the hardest part is not being able to resolve what happened. I know I have been hurt and no doubt the people involved have been hurt as well. That’s what happens when you can’t control the outcome. Depending on how you look at things it really is hard to know who is at fault. There are always two sides to the story but if it becomes surrounded by controversy then those two sides become multiple and in most cases twisted and create unrest.

Riding along the bus I just look like an everyday individual going about my day with everyone oblivious to what I am hiding underneath and that makes me think what other secrets or mysteries are lurking on this journey bus 380.

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Five Minute Word Spew – Tania McMurtry

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

I’m Gunna think about this a bit more – later.

I have really enjoyed listening to everyone’s stories, ambitions and fears today  at the Gunnas Masterclass and while I relate to lots of it – it has led me to reflect on my current painting – the one in the studio that I keep talking about, worrying about and showing everyone and then hating how they respond  – it’s either  that I think they’re just plain wrong, don’t get it or that I think they’re just being nice. But why do I care and more importantly why do I ask?  Their comments just sit in my head like bad smells affecting my ability to do anything worthwhile – to be myself, to explore freely and wildly with out pandering to the possible expectations of others. These others that I refer to are my friends and my family and I love them – but why do I have to ask for an opinion when I know it’s going to cloud me – why do I need this fake reassurance? Is this similar to how Jess (a comrade Gunna) thinks young women think about sex? I wonder…..

I love the studio work that I’m doing but I also want to write and I worry will  one take away from the other – alter my energy so to speak? That sounds silly doesn’t it? Another nagging insecurity – my god am I really that insecure? I do have great sex though – mostly.

Is it an artists lot to feel insecure, to need reassurance and if it is, why? Is it a necessary part of the creative process – a productive pain like a contraction in child birth – a means to an end. Does that mean that an artist shouldn’t grow too confident – is that what will happen if I find a way to manage my insecurity. Will not sharing, asking and talking about my work in progress make me more confident or leave me to wallow in my own suffocating, spiraling chaos until I find my way through.

I wonder what everyone else is writing? I wonder what Aine is writing – I’m starting to struggle – but only because I guess I don’t want to go any further – to explore my insecurity – shit – when will this 5 mins be up? I think she lied – it’s 10.

I can see others looking around from my excellent peripheral vision – I know my mind is wandering to what I will teach my kids class on Tuesday – oh- that’s right – I know already – charcoal drawings of an autumnal scene – yea we’re gunna do that.

Phew, time is up!

www.taniamcmurtry.com

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Pushy Women Melbourne Comedy Festival 2016

News

Pushy Women Number Eight!

After seven gangbuster sellout shows all over Australia Pushy Women is back in 2016 as part of the  Melbourne International Comedy Festival with a sizzling line up of town bikes, lady riders, pedal pushers, lycra ladettes, fixie hipsters, BMX bandits, dykes on bykes, step through ladies women who don’t ride AT ALL. Also Pushy Women SYDNEY April 24.

Eight of Melbourne’s most prominent women; celebrities, comedians, writers, performers and broadcasters each speak 8 minutes about bikes!

It will be held at The Ballroom Trades Hall April 10 at 2pm. It’s Sunday afternoon.

JUST ANNOUNCED

Award winning international superstar comedian Felicity Ward

Circus acrobat, dancer, writer, comedian and star of Asking For It: A One-Lady Rape About Comedy Starring Her Pussy And Little Else Adrienne Truscott

Brisbane-based comedy writer and host of the fortnightly comedy podcast Bring a Plate Bec Shaw Brocklesnitch

Feminist cabaret comedy gold  Lady Sings It Better

Comedy dynamo, writer and up and coming superstar and  Becky Lucas 

Masterchef winner 2013, gardener, babe and loudmouth  Emma Dean

Comedian, actor and  star of 5 Ways To Disappoint Your Vietnamese Mother Diana Nguyen

Last year it sold out a month before the show! Don’t miss out.

BOOK HERE

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A Moment With A Comet – Peachie Pantelis

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

They lay and watched the night traffic in the sky- satellites and planes, planets and starbursts. Finally the comet, so long awaited for and soon to vanish for another one hundred years burst across the sky… They watched it steadily, sighing and exclaiming, and then…they were left with just the sound of their breath and the rustle of the trees- and the wishes they had sent to the night sky lay around them unanswered…
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Two Pieces – David Packman

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Sister madly

I can’t remember the last conversation I had with my sister. This thought has a nasty habit of springing to mind uninvited. For better or worse, it is invariably throttled before it has time to take hold. If I’m brutally honest, I struggle to even recall the true extent of our relationship at the time. I think it was OK. That phrase sounds so hollow as it echoes around inside my head.

Most of the time, I don’t allow myself to feel the sting of that particular barb. My sister loved me, and she did so with all her heart – and I loved her too, of course – but the parameters of our particular family dynamic never allowed for such wild and uninhibited displays of vulnerability. My mother yearned for such a thing, but for my dad, it was simply a step too far. Life was about discipline – military style – sharing nothing too personal for fear it could be used against you. Giving was an acceptable commodity, but only if one was sure to be in receipt of something greater.

My sister left me a letter. An outpouring of life-affirming emotion – even in death – but hidden within it was an undercurrent only a big brother could decipher; I know you have an immense capacity to love, but will you please fucking find it before it’s too late.

Notes from within the test tube

As the day drew on, he observed some reduction in his current dwelling on the human condition. The disturbing sound below him turned out to be just the hum in the kitchen. Sure, the Wi-Fi caused some pain in his nether regions, but on the upside, last night’s altercation with the mould seemed more distant, perhaps brought into perspective by the slight smell of must that had greeted him as he first materialised in the room.

The day itself went from shockingly offensive – from the teacher, to the material, to the surrounds – to somewhat bearable, distinctly pleasurable and eventually, highly fulfilling. More than a few exceptional takeaways in addition to some characters well met.

A beautifully broken lot, writers, inevitable drawn together like moths to a flame. As he listened to the combined melange of their experiences, he was reminded to allow people in. Suddenly, he felt everyone was dancing to the same tune. Turns out it was just him making the needle stick.

Check out a little more of David’s world here

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My Third Birthday – Ernest Price

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

Today is my third birthday.

I’m not usually one to celebrate milestones.

I didn’t celebrate when I received my new name in the mail on an unbendable, unbreakable certificate, or the first time that my GP gave me a large, painful injection.

I didn’t mark the day my voice began to break from its lifelong falsetto, the day my body fat began to shift from my hips to my gut or the day that I could finally cobble together a respectable approximation of a 13 year old’s beard.

I didn’t write about the moment that I stood in front of 100 colleagues and told them who I had always been, or the moment that I stood in front of 250 students and told them who I was becoming.

I didn’t speak about the time that I first passed as male in a supermarket, or the first time that I suffered the privilege of using a male public toilet.

I didn’t share my experience of draining my superannuation to have life-changing surgery that would render me immobile and inconceivably joyful.

I didn’t celebrate these milestones because I didn’t want to paralyse myself waiting for change that may never happen. I didn’t celebrate these milestones because many of them came without notice or without fanfare – arriving in parts rather than as a whole. More than anything, I didn’t celebrate these milestones because I didn’t want to be the kind of straight white man who thought himself entitled to broadcast the minutiae of his everyday existence.

So I carried on, shifting incrementally towards the man I wanted to be. Days, weeks, months, years passed and life happened. I got a job that made me happy. I travelled. I made friends. I lost friends. People around me had babies. People around me died. My mother, from whom I am estranged, developed what is likely to be a terminal illness. I lived the way most of us live, with moments of joy, moments of desperate banality and moments of sheer anger at life’s absurd cruelties.

And so, because life happens, I am choosing to celebrate this day. I gifted myself the Gunnas Masterclass for my third birthday because I know now that I am never going to be the man I want to be. I also know that I want to live every day like he is a possibility. And so I will continue to move, incrementally, towards his image.

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Dream Job – Jane Schinas

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

At the library one day Tim discovered, accidentally, that he could take a book out without anyone noticing. He had put the book in his bag while searching for another one, and forgot to check the first book out. The smuggled-out book was about space exploration and had pictures of the first moon landing. Tim cut out all the best pictures and, once it was dark, sneaked out to throw the remains of the book into the creek behind his house.  He used some of the pictures in his assignment and glued the rest of them into a scrap book. Tim had an inkling that some people would think he was a vandal to have cut up a book but he mostly just felt resourceful and clever.
Tim kept taking books and everyday congratulated himself on this newfound source of material. His teachers complimented him on his work and commented on the wonderful pictures he was using to illustrate his assignments. He would sometimes be a bit nervous at the library, wondering if he’d be caught. But he figured he would just say what he would have honestly said if he’d been caught the first time, that he had forgotten that he put the book in his bag. It meant he could only take one book at a time for cutting up and had to check out at least one other book fairly and squarely, to maintain the story in case he ever needed to use it.
During the summer holidays, after almost a year of cutting books and dumping their carcasses in the creek, Tim woke from a nightmare. He was sweating and felt like something heavy was pressing down on his chest. He couldn’t get the vision of piles of damaged books out of his head. He suddenly felt so sorry, for the books themselves, for the people who worked at the library and searched for books that were no longer there, and for the other kids who couldn’t use the books for their assignments.
Many years after the year of cut up books, Tim found a job writing code for a company that made software for library security gates. It still made him sad to think of the librarians waiting behind the desk with their stamps and how easy it had been for him to get past them but he took heart in knowing that he was now saving many more books than he had destroyed. He had found his dream job. Protector of the books.
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Insurance Is A Health Hazard

COLUMNS

Insurance is a health hazard.

I’m deeply opposed to insurance (apart from  home and car).

Life insurance, health insurance, disability insurance, income protection insurance… the list is endless.

The culture of insurance quashes people’s innovation, resilience, creativity and self-reliance. It gives people an illusion of safety and certainty. It stops people thinking.  And risk taking. It stops people living their lives. It makes people believe money can solve everything. Well, everything that’s important. So you just work. Make the money and pay the insurance and everything will be okay. You don’t have to look after your health, your relationships, your emotional well-being or your career. You don’t have to continuingly ask yourself the hard questions ‘what do I want now?’, ‘what do I need now?’, ‘what it best for me?’ or act on the responses.

I have no safety net. I just assume I’ll be able to adapt my spending, accommodation and expenses to line up with my needs. Because that’s what I have always done.

And maybe I won’t but living my life with that assumption I’m constantly collecting skills, ideas and different perspectives. I am expecting my life to be a cross-country marathon/obstacle course with periods of bushwalking over a long period of time. Not a short sprint and then walking around doubled over for a bit while I catch my breath before retiring with an injury.

If you believe the commercials “Money can fix everything, It’s all you need and if you can’t insure against it it’s not that bad, it won’t happen or it only happens to you if you have done something wrong.”

Peace of mind they call it. Or piece of mind.

How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.

No one’s life goes to plan. The point where people realise that it doesn’t and they don’t have to be perfect is the time they really begin to live. When they stop trying to convince others and themselves they are the perfect wife, favorite son, greatest mother, crew member of the month, most devout Catholic, loyal supporter, died in the wool fan, true believer… When they ask themselves ‘If I had six months to live what would I do? And what’s stopping me?’ That’s when life begins.

There are also the illusions of the insurance of private schools, marriage, job security, mum will sort everything, dad will fix everything and God will give me a happy ending in the sky with angels. I have seen many adults coast along through life just waiting for their parents to die so they’ll get the money. And waiting to die themselves so they get their magic party in the sky with their imaginary friend who’ll look after them forever. And when things don’t go to plan they have no ability to cope.

Is that actually a life? Not for me.

People constrained by these expectations, institutions and false economies never forge their own career, speak with their own voice or sing from their own heart. They never live their own lives. They are merely a spectator.

It’s the people who have never had a safety net, no money buffer, no family backing, no old school tie connections who are living their lives. Personally, socially, creatively, intellectually, emotionally and financially because they have had no other choice than to slog away to pay their rent and on the way carving out a custom made life that fits them like a glove. Not constrained by expectations, institutions or false economies. No illusion of safety. These people are still living their Plan A. Which was ‘roll with the punches and live and live big’.

The true cost of the ‘peace of mind’ is a stunted life without adventure and no ability or incentive to grow, adapt or expand. Some people just pay the insurance and the superannuation as if it guarantees them health, happiness and pain free security. It doesn’t.

These people stop growing.

You cannot insure against pain.

You cannot insure against having a disease or injury.

You cannot insure against feeling like a failure.

You cannot insure against disappointing children.  Or parents.

You cannot insure against a broken heart, substance abuse or mental illness.

You cannot insure against a relationship breakdown or a spiteful or detonating partner or ex.

You cannot insure against being retrenched.

You cannot insure against being sucked in to believe a boring job, an unsatisfying relationship or following a religion or set of social critiques will guarantee you a happy ending.

You cannot insure against the illusion of security turning on you and leaving you stranded without the hunter gather skills of innovation, flexibility and resilience that could now save you and you would have had if you had the courage to chosen the live you lived and live it.

You cannot insure against loneliness.

You cannot insure against bitterness, resentment or envy.

You cannot insure against grief.

You cannot insure against being sad feeling sucked in or ripped off.

But you can try these things.  Cultivate being brave, optimistic, flexible, resilient and creative.

Have low overheads and focus on your health, pleasure and satisfaction. This will impact on your happiness, stress and choices. You will do more things, be offered more opportunity because you are fun, fit, available and relish new challenges and you will bounce back quicker when things don’t work out.

My career is my income protection insurance.

Looking after myself is my health insurance.

Living is my life insurance.

 

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Alice Springs – Cassandra Power

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

My best friend Cass and I have the same name.  We met at university and have stayed super close throughout the following decade.  Our friendship is a great positive thing in my life and I never take it for granted.  It’s the type of friendship that calls bullshit on the need for conflict to bring you close together.  We don’t need to be proud of surviving bad times, we’ve never really had any.  Cass moved to Alice Springs a few years ago with her awesome partner and I had bounced around a few cities but finally settled in Melbourne. The last time we saw each other was in her hometown of Canberra for her amazing and magical wedding, in which I was a bridesmaid.  It was one of those weddings that makes you understand that sometimes (not always) love should be celebrated.  It had been nearly a year since that day and I was overdue for a visit.

I scoured the net for cheap flights for months, it took so long because I am a shift worker and lining up sale airfares with my rostered days off was a pain in the ass. Eventually I made it happen, it was a Wednesday through Friday when she would be working, so not perfect but it was doable.  I messaged her and let her know about the deal because I knew her friend Tim was also keen for a visit, so I thought I would be helpful.  It was six away so with the deal done I forgot about the upcoming holiday and went back to my life, happy it was on my agenda.

A few days out from my holiday and I began to think details, arrivals, transport, activities, you know, the usual holiday stuff.  I messaged Cass to organise stuff.  She was happy to hear from me but was a bit busy, Tim had also taken up flights and she was currently hosting him.  They were going camping for the weekend before they drove to the Uluru airport. “Sweet.  No worries, I’ll do some googling of stuff and I’ll call you later in the week :)”  I was at work anyways and thought I should probably stop bludging.  A couple of hours later a thought popped into my head.  There’s an airport at Uluru? I didn’t know that.  And that’s where Tim was flying out from?  Didn’t he use the same airline as me? Oh shit, does that mean I”m not flying into Alice Springs?  I check my email confirmation.  No.  No I wasn’t.

Ahhh shit.  I message Cass the news.  “Guess what douchebag, A.D.D thing I have done.”  I immediately got a response, “lol classic Pow Pow” (My last name is Power, so this was the nickname she came up with to help others distinguish between us).  It was pretty typical of my blasé’ approach to organisation.  Never mind though, she said, my arrival date was the same day as Tim’s departure so they would pick me up.  Sweet, I thought and back to work I went.

Some hours later I start to think about it again.  OK, so if I fly into the rock on a Wednesday afternoon and get into Alice that night then we hang out on Thursdayafter Cass’ work, I’ll have to spend all day Friday traveling to make my flight.  Well that sucks that’s basically 6 fun hours with my friend?  Nope.  I was gonna have to change my flight.

OK.  Think Cass, think. I found a bigger space later in the month and call up the airline to explain my mistake.  Sure, you can change your flights, they said, it’s going to be the price difference of 80 dollars each way and a changing fee, $350 all up please.  I gritted my teeth and paid.  Sometimes it costs money to have this brain.  Pay and move on.

And I did.

A couple of weeks later and the new travel dates were coming up.  So google, google, google.  No real transport options from the Rock to Alice.  I opted for car hire.  Fine, sorted, done.  It was going to be expensive but doable and on the plus side I would see the famous rock.  I was excited.

I finish my last shift at work at 6am and walked towards Melbourne’s Southern Cross station.  Skybus. Check.  Online check in.  Check.  Airport security.  Check.  Coffee.  Check.  Gate number check.  Stay awake whilst I wait for flight.  A few yawns but check.  And I’m on the plane.

I sit next to a lovely British couple, retirees who entertain me with their recent world travels, I pretend I’m a pro of the outback, I help them with the time zones and tell them “you know we’re close when the earth turns red.”  I’m in the aisle  seat and about half an hour later the lovely British lady turns to me says, “Oh it’s turned red, it really is very red.”  Hahaha.  We arrive and I step off the plane, a super hot wave of air hits me.  Oh yeah this shit is hooooot!  I get inside, thank God and stand in line  for what seems like hours while people in front of me arrange their car hires.  I did not realise this was going to be so popular.  Maybe I should have booked ahead.  Finally it’s my turn, they have one car left.  Oh thank God.  The guy hands me the keys and the paperwork and says it’s the last car left on the block.  It’s a fucking Barina.  Not exactly what you think of when driving through the outback but it’s got air conditioning and I’m happy.  I ask one hundred people for directions, “Oh you can’t miss it!”  I hate this answer.  I bet I can miss it and I have seen Wolf creek.

I drive out of the airport and turn left about five minutes down the road I pull over and check that I”m going in the right direction.  I am sort of.  If I keep going I’ll make it to Alice but I’ll miss the rock.  Don’t be lazy Cass – turn around and go see Australia’s natural wonder of the world.  So I do and it has to be seen to be believed.  It’s too big to photograph but I take a few selfies.  In every photo I’m swatting flies, squinting into the sun and I look like I’ve been awake for every second of the 24 hours that it’s been so far.  Ok the rock, been there, done that. Check and move on.  I drive for ages and ages and there are no signs.  There’s one hundred signs telling tourists what side of the road to drive on, there are heaps of signs to little towns I’ve never heard of and highway’s that I have no idea where they’re headed,I’m starting to become skeptical that I’m on the right track.  Eventually I see a small petrol station and pull up.  It’s one of the smallest petrol stations with ridiculous prices that the hire company dude warned me not to use, but fuck it for the sake of an extra 30 bucks I’m not breaking down in the outback.  It’s a great experience.  I fill up, grab a couple of huge red bulls and head to the counter.  The attendant is friendly, I’m about to confirm with him that I’m headed in the right direction but he does it for me, in a hilarious way, “Off to the big smoke then are you?”  It takes me a few seconds to answer, is he pulling my leg?  Am I being a Melbourne snob by thinking that’s a joke.  Eventually I reply, “Do you mean Alice?”  “Yeah.”  He is deadly serious.  “I am.  And it’s that way is it?”  I point in the direction I have been driving.  “Sure is, have a good time!”  I am so stoked to hear I’m on my way that I go outside, have a soothing cigarette in the dry ass heat, turn down an offer from elderly indigenous man to buy his artwork, (because I have no cash and their ATM isn’t working, not because it isn’t amazing or because I’m a Collingwood supporter and he has a Port Power Guernsey on), watch him get waved away by a tourist from a coach tour and jump back in my little hatchback.  I start to relax.  I’m confident enough now to chill and enjoy my surrounds.  And it starts to get beautiful.  All of a sudden gorges and red mountains surround me, and I am blown away by my country’s beauty.  Maybe it was the sleep deprivation I don’t know but I begin to get a little but patriotic bordering on emotional, I see signs to Alice and Darwin and have a little daydream of how awesome it would be to keep on going, but I see my first 130 speed limit and I snap back to reality, I want to get there by 6:30pm.  I want to watch a footy game with my friends.  I put the pedal down and get back to business.  I arrive at my destination at 6:20.

It’s hugs all around from my great mates, then footy time, then crash.  The rest of the weekend goes pretty well to plan.  My mates take me swimming at Ormiston Gorge, we have a dinner Vietnamese lunch with friends at a restaurant that is located on a paddock out of time, we watch great movies, we analyse politics and talk about our lives, we take the piss out of each other and finally I cook them dinner to say thank you and the trip is over.  Too soon, but never underrated.  I pack my bags and lie in my bed.  It is silent and still.  I can’t hear a thing and I cannot sleep.  I’m tired but not sleepy, I’m frustrated and I flip from side to side.  When 5amcomes around I’m frustrated.  I’m driving back to the rock in an hour and I’m pissed that I have to do it in a sleep deprived state.  But I have no choice, I get up, get dressed swing my back pack on, hug my Cass goodbye, because she is awesome and got up super early to make me coffee and send me off and jump in the car.  I punch in Uluru in google maps and hope the internet will stay with me for long enough to get out of town and on the right track before it dies.  I begin to drive into town, I see a McDonald’s and decide that a roadie breakfast will be a good idea and here is where everything begins to fall apart.

Before I can get to McDonald’s I first have to cross the railway line, it’s a line that is used by the Ghan, it runs twice a day and provides Alice with a shit load of supplies.  It only runs twice a day but if you are unlucky enough to be held up by this train you will wait forever.  The locals have a saying for when this happens, and it happened to me, I got ‘Ghanned.’

I’ll tell you now if you’re from a capital city or even a regional city and you visit Alice, things are different in the outback, time is less precious, things just movie a little slower, there is no need to rush.  So when I pull into the Macca’s drive through I’m initially happy with my position of third in line, but eventually I realise that I have underestimated the time this will take, but there is someone behind me I really need to stay on top of my caffeine intake so I’m committed to my breakfast.  I drive away with my McMuffin and my coffee frappichino a little later than I would have liked, but I’m still on track, everything is still ok.  I follow my Google maps directions out onto a highway that leads out of turn, when I see a sign to South Australia, I think I should follow it but Google says nothing.  I know better than to argue with Google.  Google runs the world.  I keep driving.  Barely twenty seconds later Google is redirecting me back towards the sign.  Grrrrrr.  I have not had enough sleep for your bullshit Google.  Get it together.  I do a u-turn and head back and take the turn off.  Soon I’m in the 130 zone and the dark is lifting so I can relax a little bit about all the animals that the locals have warned me about, but I still keep my eyes peeled as much as I can.  I do not want this Barina to face off with a Red Kangaroo, I’m not sure which one weighs more.  Two hours in, I’m exhausted but I arrive an Erldunda.  It’s got a big ass petrol station on the corner of the turn off to the rock, I pull in fill up, use the loos, have a smoke, buy a drink and take off.  I notice the car in front of me South Australian plates but I think nothing of it and just drive.  I drive for 80 kilometers, the sun is getting hot, I’m having trouble staying awake and there is only red dirt to see everywhere I look, that is of course until I see a very big sign.  It’s my first recognisable sign in an hour and when I see it I’m filled with absolute fucking horror.  WELCOME TO SOUTH AUSTRALIA.  This is not good.  I do not want to be here at all.  I pull over, check myself, pinch myself, make sure that is what I just saw and turn the fuck around.  I see another sign welcoming me to the Northern territory.  I put the foot down and start doing some math.  I can’t tell how many kilometer’s I drove incorrectly I just know the time and it was a while.  I know I have to go back to Erlduna, and I have to do it as quickly as possible.  I do it at 160.  When I see cars in the distance I slow down but other that I drive this little 4 cylinder as fast as it will go in the middle of the road and I concentrate really fucking hard on what I am looking at ahead of me, if a kangaroo surprises me at this speed I am screwed, if I miss my flight I don’t have the money for another one I am screwed.  It’s about 40 minutes back to Erlduna and there I am doing everything I can do, I cannot fix my mistake.  I cannot speed up time or physically push this car any further.  I am in a vortex.  i just do not know if I can make this right, I don’t have enough information and I have no fucking internet.  My head space gets pretty dark, I begin to think about  every mistake I’ve ever made, all the times I’ve let myself down, every time I’ve other people down.  This is why I am single I think, because I just cannot commit any partner to this stressful minute to minute life of chaos.  Then the tears come, but I am driving too fast to take my hands off the steering wheel and wipe them away.  But I don’t really need to, I’ve turned off the cooler to conserve petrol and they  just evaporate in the morning sun and forceful wind.  Now I am angry, I’m angry at my brain, I’m angry that I just cannot get it to perform at a level that I want it to.  I yell at it.  I tell it to fuck off and stop fucking with my life.  I feel sorry for myself.  I just wanted to see my friends.  The tears stop when I see a truck stop, I make a calculated risk to stop and confirm my direction, I do not trust myself.  Direction confirmed, I get back in the car and stare at the road ahead of me, I try and empty my brain of the dark thoughts and get on with the job.  Eventually I see Erlduna.  I look at my petrol gauge and make a calculated risk to keep going.  I need to put some kilometers on the clock and get some momentum behind me.  Now the information starts coming in.  It’s 260 kilometers to the rock, it’s 9:40am, my flight leaves at 11:45 but I need to check in at 11:15.  Maths is not my strong suit, I’m driving like I can make it but the numbers are not adding up.  I need to make up an hour and a half somewhere.  I need to refuel and I need to drop off the hire car, assuming that I haven’t completely destroyed the motor.  If I was amped up before I am running out of steam, I am losing hope.  Random alternative plans are starting to come into head.  Would I have been better off to continue to Adelaide and get a cheap flight home and pay a one way car hire surcharge, should I have refuelled early, should I admit defeat and drive at a safe speed.  I continue slowing down on sign of cars or towns.  I have absolutely no faith left that I make my flight but I keep going because there is no alternative.  I start thinking about which family member I am going to contact for the shameful, “can I borrow money?” conversation.  Whose turn is it to save me from this shit.  I see a petrol station, I cannot avoid it, I must stop and refuel, I’m thinking about the precious seconds and frustrated that it is a prepaid situation but I am fucking thirsty so at least there is that.  I ask the girl at the counter how far until the rock, she tells me two hours.  It’s 10:00am I have made up half and hour, I have to close the gap by another hour.  It’s just not going to happen and I know it.  I curse the Jetstar website that wouldn’t let me check in online the night before.  I am all but defeated in my mind, as I continue to drive, I”m not thinking about anything, I’m on auto pilot.  Time is getting away from me but as I get closer to the rock more signs begin to arise and suddenly I realise I have been calculating the kilometer’s to the rock, but the airport is actually a little bit closer than that, not much, but it is enough for a little bit of hope to return.  And then the signs start coming, the math is getting better, I keep working my calculations out as if I am driving to the rock itself and hoping for the best.  It’s 10:30 and the gap is closing suddenly best case scenario will have me there only a  couple of minutes late.  I need a bit of luck, I need the airport to be a bit more casual than Melbourne,  I need them to be a little loose of time, I need no queues, I need the rental car return to be super quick (after I check in).  I start thinking of lies I can tell the airline, “well, your online check in told me I had worked, but I just didn’t receive my boarding pass)”  I start getting a game plan.  I start to brighten up, I’m not confident by any means but I am not defeated just yet.  And then I see animals.  Fuck!  I have to slow right down.  The cattle wonder up and down the road and I’ve gotta go real slow now.  For their sake and for mine.  But I’m ok with the time, I making it up pretty well.  km’s per hour to km’s left is on par now so as soon as the animals are gone I’m off.  As I get closer I have to do a reasonable speed, there are more and more cars and I am in a better frame of mind.  I decide that I have done whatever I could and whatever will be will be.  I realise I’m alive and that I do have people that will help me get home if I need.  I decide I’m very lucky, I feel very loved, I think I was definitely being dramatic, but I think this incident has been the push I needed to go to doctor and investigate whether or not I really do have ADD.  And then I see the turn on to the airport, I take it, I turn onto the airport driveway it’s 11:12.  I AM GOING TO MOTHER FUCKING MAKE IT!  I park the car, grab the rubbish out in the bin, I grab my back pack and head the airline desk.  I’m dizzy, I’m sweating, like everything is blurry, nothing feels real, I sort of can’t believe this is happening, there is a girl in front of me, she can’t find her ID, “you go first.” she says to me, “Oh my God thank you!” I run up to the counter.  The attendant speaks, “To Melbourne?”  “Yes!”  “ID please, check in closes in two minutes.”  I throw my license at her and seconds later I have my boarding pass.  I still cannot believe it, but it is not over yet. I spin around and scan the security situation.  There is not line up.  Good.  It’s Uluru, this was the one part of the part that I had daringly factored in.  I keep spinning in the direction of the car hire place.  Shit.  He is serving someone, I remember how slow they were a few days ago.  Shit, shit shit.  I lineup, I’m trying not to look impatient, this is really not their fault, I really don’t want to take this out on them.  The guy sees me, “Are you just returning a car?.”  “Yeah.”  “Just drop your keys in this box.”  Well that’s the best fucking news ever.  The car is returned, it’s not full of petrol, but fuck it, I’ll take it.  I zoom through airport security.  I’m at my gates.  I don’t know if I was before but I know that I am breathing now.  I am aware of the adrenaline, I am aware of my sweatiness.  We begin to board.  I am on the plane, I put my back back in the overhead locker, I am in my seat.  This is happening. I made it.  I’m going home.  The plane starts to move, the attendants begin the safety check, I decide that I am going to order a bottle of wine at the earliest possible opportunity, but i do not, instead I just wake up at Tullermarine.

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Remembering – Naty Guerrero-Diaz

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.

We were never really going to be able to have dinner in peace that day. It was too exciting.  The police were in the streets from lunch time, even though the real action wasn’t until after 6pm.  That was the time the curfew started.  We saw a lot of police on the streets on our way home from school.  They were dressed in green and they wore those funny hats. I remember the hats because they were the only thing that made them look different to the army. The army wore helmets.  They were also on the streets.  They were in big water tanks at street corners, as if waiting for crowds to build so they could disperse them with the water cannons.  People said that the water they used was sewerage but I always thought it smelt more like bleach than farts.

That evening we had dinner early.  I can’t remember what we ate. My sister and I were so excited we couldn’t really sit still. Mum washed the dishes as soon as she could because we were going to bang the pots and pans after dinner and we didn’t have many.

Once the curfew started it always took a little while for people to start making noise. It was like no-one wanted to be the first because no-one wanted the police to be able to tell where the sound was coming from.  We were never first.  Mum didn’t let us start until almost everyone else in the neighbourhood was already in their yard banging their pots and pans.  When we did join in it was the funnest ever! We were allowed to be as loud as we wanted, and my sister and I would laugh and sing along to popular songs.  Sometimes people chanted between the banging and we would join in that too.

I often wondered what it would be like to be on the street when there was a curfew.  To hear the whole neighbourhood banging pots and pans, chanting loudly, but not be able to tell who was joining in and who wasn’t.  I imagined what it would look like to a bird, seeing yard after yard filled with families banging pots and pans, separate but together.  Chanting “the people united will never be defeated”.  United, yet separated by fences.

We were never allowed to stay up until the end – we always had to go to bed before the silence came.  I remember being in bed, tired and sleepy, listening to the pots and pans.  It didn’t keep me awake really, it kind of soothed me.  I felt safe.

In retrospect I don’t think it was safe.  There were police and military on the streets, just outside our door.  Occasionally we’d hear the sound of someone being arrested, or trying to avoid arrest.  They’d say they had a legitimate reason to be on the street.  They were going to work, or home, or hospital. Sometimes crowds would gather, in protest against the curfew, against the government, against the poverty.  And we’d hear the water tanks, and people running, and tear gas. Occasionally there would be distant gunshots.

So yeah, it probably wasn’t safe.  But on those nights, when I was warm in bed, in a room I shared with my sister, listening to the pots and pans and the chants of the neighbours; on those nights I felt safe.

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