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.