Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I am sure you have all seen it, the headline that says ‘Grandmother bashed in her house’ or ‘Grandmother arrested for carrying drugs through airport in Thailand’.  Well, I am a grandmother, but you know what, I don’t get it.  I don’t get why it’s important to tell us that someone is a grandmother in a headline like that.  Does it mean they are more worthy of compassion?  Does it mean that they are therefore a bit old and senile so you wouldn’t expect them to have the brainpower to manage to smuggle drugs?  Or that it’s no surprise when they get caught because obviously their brain is a bit frazzled because of grandmotherhood.

Yep I am a grandmother, and I love it.  My grandchildren have each from day one, got their claws into my heart and embedded themselves deeply into my soul.  They give me joy and they magnify any fears I have for the future of the world because I don’t want them to have to deal with the damage we seem to be hellbent on wreaking on this tiny planet we inhabit.  But I don’t want to be defined as a grandmother.  I am a woman with a history, an atheist, an activist, a feminist  . I have worked to change the world, I have worked to make our community just a little bit safer for women and children.  I have loved good and bad men, I have travelled, I have at times had too much to eat and too much to drink.  I dance, I laugh, I tell stories, I am rude, I am kind and I am at times quite cruel.

I hate those flowery cards and sentiments that say things like ‘best grandmother ever’.  I hate those shallow quotes that say grandmothers make the world go around, that they are always there when you need them, or they are wise or spread kindness and compassion.  In the end grandmothers are just women.  Women who have had (in my case the incredibly fortunate) experience of giving birth and whose children have survived long enough and healthy enough to have their own children.  Being a grandmother does not automatically make you wise, or saintly or a source of overflowing goodness.  In some cases women have not wanted or known how to care for their own children, are able to love, celebrate and care for their grandchildren.  Others never learn to care for themselves let alone anyone else.  Grandmothers both carry the sins of past generations and hand them down to the future ones if they are allowed to.

Not all grandmothers are there all the time.  Some of them want their own space, some work and love it, (or hate it but need the money) some want to have a life and not be forever available to give and give and give again.  Some do choose to do that, or feel pressured into it by their ever so loving children and grandchildren.  I know that I am a pretty good person, but not because I am a grandmother.  I am a good person because I care about the world, because I intensely dislike those parasites like Tony Abbott and Cory Bernardi who want to drag us back to the last century.  It’s my values and the things I have done that define my goodness and worth, not my status as a grandmother.  I know my grandchildren are fortunate to have me in their lives, not because I am inherently kind or good, but because having me around allows them to know their past.  Somebody, no idea who, once said that we need to know and acknowledge our past to shape our present and our future.  So that’s what I give them, a knowledge of who they are and where they come from.  Those who have been denied that connection, like the stolen generation or orphans or those who have not had families that cared for them, tell us what an aching hole not having that history, that connection to the past that understanding of where they came from, can leave.

Maybe that’s why grandmothers are either celebrated or sniggered at.  Maybe it’s because we provide that connection to what has gone before which some people value and some don’t.  But just think, if we celebrated and included all older people and spent time listening to them, to their stories to their histories then grandparents would be just another part of that.  If, as a community, we embraced all children and all older people, whether you were or were not a parent or grandparent would not matter.  What would matter would be your memory, your history, the knowledge you have accumulated over the years and the connections you have to your community.

So, next time you read those headlines, or you see the cards or somebody posts something on facebook about grandmothers, just think that there is a whole history there that is more than that.  Just think that there is a woman who has a life and who has lived it well or not but that she is more than just a grandmother and is not deserving of either sainthood or scorn just because she carries that label.  Be curious instead about what her life might be or have been like.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Peter is my uncle… or was my uncle.  I can’t really tell you if he was or is… that’s the hard thing.  He went missing before I was born and before my sisters were born.  In fact, he went missing when my mother was pregnant with her first child 30 years ago; my eldest sister.  Mum has never ever told or showed me truly how this has affected her.  She has always kept my sisters and I at arms-length by telling us that she believed Peter was dead.  Maybe this was her way of shutting down any questions we may have had, or even questions that she herself had about his disappearance.  Maybe in her mind, she needed to block out the “what if’s” and the perpetual cycle of scenarios playing over and over again. I haven’t yet fathomed just how difficult that must have been for her… to have one little life growing inside of her and the juxtaposition of another taken away from her.

There was darkness in Peter’s life.  He suffered from mental illness, just like myself.  Nobody knows exactly what form of mental illness he suffered from, as there was no actual diagnosis that was made.  He could have been suffering from depression, bipolar disorder, anxiety or schizophrenia… we just don’t know.  We don’t know if he wanted to commit suicide or how much he was suffering internally with his thoughts and feelings.  Maybe he left to start a new life, away from the boundaries he faced in his home life and in society.  Maybe there were pressures coming from his parents on how he, as their Greek son and first child, should be living his life.  Did he struggle the same way that I do?  Trying to meet parents’ expectations only to feel as though you are failing dismally?

Around the time that Peter went missing, he wasn’t doing so great.  He was unwell; so much so, that he was hospitalized.  It was when he returned home from hospital to live in the bungalow of his parent’s house that he started becoming reclusive and slipped away from family and friends.  Mum says that it was a good six months in which he didn’t come out to see her or my Dad when they visited.  She recalls leaving a John Lennon book out the front of his bedroom door for him to read.

Mum only recently told me that the last time she saw Peter was when she and my Dad were at her parent’s house.  Peter had told his parents that he was going away for a few days and was in his car to leave.  Mum just missed him because as she looked out the window from inside their home she saw Peter drive away in his Volkswagen.  That was the last time that she saw him.  His car was later found abandoned.  A friend of Peter’s saw him on a train and spoke with him some time after he became a missing person.  I don’t know exactly how much time had lapsed, but this girl friend had a general chat with him, completely oblivious to the fact he was deemed officially missing. We know of no other sightings past this time.

I recently started making some connections between Peter and I; Peter studied to be a teacher, and funnily enough, I fell into teaching too.  We both studied Education at La Trobe University and it seems we both have the same love for literature.  His vast collection can be found in the back room of my grandma’s house and I always feel drawn to him when I am there.  The first time that I felt drawn was when I saw that he had a collection of Chekhov plays- my favourite playwright!  The second, was just a few months ago when I had just discovered a love for D.H. Lawrence.  I found myself looking through Peter’s collection again and learnt that he too had some of Lawrence’s work.  I felt a rush of tightness in my gut, for I was realising a very deep sadness that was being brought to the surface.

I can finally identify this now as grief.  It was the grief of never knowing my uncle. It was the grief of losing a piece of my history; my uncle who I would desperately love to have known.  The family member who I was strangely feeling very connected to and wondered if he was the one I had longed for all along… the one who would understand my challenges as an artist, a writer, a sensitive soul…the one who would relate to my inner demons and struggles and who would share with me his wisdom of living through it.  I wish I knew if he did make it through.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Wow “Commitment”, THAT word! When I hear it, I put on my trainers, lace them up tight, and run as hard and as fast as I can in the opposite direction. To me, to commit to something means .…caught, stuck, burdened, forever maybe? losing a big part of myself, trapped. Wow, it is such a big, strong word. But it can mean different things depending on what it is I am committing to. I feel I am very good at committing to certain things in life so long as I don’t regard them as commitments. The minute I hear THAT word, I start to feel uneasy and not so much defensive of my free life but protective and hopeful, that whatever it is I am being ask to commit to, will not upset or ruin what I have. But what is it that is sooo important to me and I am afraid to lose? In a nutshell, it is “My Time”. This is something which I feel is incredibly important to me, and I have to make sure I can slot it into my life somewhere.

When I do achieve this “My Time”, I am possibly the world’s “all time greatest” procrastinator. I relish and look forward to having time to myself sooo much, that often, when I have it, I begin work on some of the most mundane, boring, uninspiring tasks I have had mounting up on me over the way. For instance, I live in a rather ramshackle rental, and in my newly acquired “My Time”, I decided to: paint the laundry floor

paint the back room

sand, paint and re-hang the doors

weed, dig up and destroy the kikuyu and couch lawn

Who cares? Who really cares?

I whittle away the beautiful, calming, relaxing and cherished moments very easily, then get organised for my next shift.

I decided a month ago to work one day a week less and devote that day to me. So far I have managed to book appointments at my dentist (apparently I need major work), my surgeon (for my shoulder), and have picked up an extra shift at my second employment. Here I was using my beautiful, precious time to book it up with horrible appointments or extra work.

I need to stop…take stock and keep my Fridays free.

I have found one of my biggest challenges was not telling family members and friends that

I have stopped working on Fridays. I felt that if I could just keep that secret long enough….it would be just that : MY Fridays. I realise my inability to say “no” to people is a big problem. But now that I am aware of this fault, I have been having some fun. I have been saying “No”more often, and the joy and relief I have experienced in the odd refusal has been wonderful. I am changing. I am re-claiming “My Time”.

This idea or thought of My Time is enough to make the corners of my mouth turn upwards into an enormous, radiant smile.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS write

Catherine has set us a task. “You’ve got six months to live. What are you going to do with this time, and what’s stopping you?”

I’ve only got 6 months left to do what I really want to do…so I am going to:

1)    Paint again. This will happen cos the studio is now set up, ready to use.

2)    Write every day. Just need to get off Facebook.

3)    Play my theremin every day.

4)    Play my new drum-kit every day.

5)    Play my keyboard every day.

6)    Record music and soundtracks.

7)    Make short films again.

8)    Go rowing in my beautiful red canoe every day.

9)    Go swimming/running every day.

10) Get my awesome new Sydney man to leave the city and live with me for the next 6 months.

11) Open my house and inspiring surrounds for one day a week to my good friends and family members to come and play music, make art, films, swim, row, fish, balter, bird-watch, play or chill out…like an artist-in -residence set up. Document it.

12) Run a monthly “Let’s Balter” event on the riverside where I now live.

13) Record my mum telling me her life stories on my new iPad.

14) Do yoga daily.

15) Continue to teach music and literacy in the local school one day a week.

What’s stopping me? Two reasons.

1)    I’m already doing these things but not regularly enough, mainly cos I’m addicted to gathering information and sharing on Facebook. So new resolution: Facebook will now be considered a treat rather than a need.

2)    Money needs to come in to pay my rent, which is why I need to find more teaching work. One day a week is not enough to pay my rent in this beautiful new location on the river. And to buy my house which I really love, I need even more dosh. Which means I need to come up with a cunning new plan….which will generate money on a sustainable level.

But as I only have six months left to live, fuck it. I’ll keep renting.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I did a runner.  Not so much running, rather a slow, sad walk down the hallway.  Creeping on the balls of my feet, floorboards threatening to creak below.  Past the front bedroom.  Past that place where my two little ones sleep.  These sisters who delight and wear me down to nothing.  Who make my heart ache and break and sing.  Heaven help me should anything happen to them.  There’s the anxiety creeping up on me again.  Like an old acquaintance, familiar but unwelcome.  It’s checking in, always checking in.  I reach the front door.  Ever so slowly I turn the handle, terrified of waking them and having to be their parent in this moment.

I’m out.  The air is hot and heavy, but a cooling breeze is trying to push its way through.  It’s the end of a heatwave and I’m spent.  Barely surviving, my head is a jumble of dark thoughts and confusion.  These girls, these little girls who now sleep so soundly in their beds have pushed me to the edge.  They have no idea.  The guilt weighs me down.  I’m now catastrophising and it feels overwhelming.  Keep walking, just keep walking.  I quicken the pace and reach the corner of my street.  Just keep moving.  Let my legs find a steady pace, desperate for something to feel steady and grounded and in control.

I contemplate if anyone has noticed my absence.  Do they know I’m on the run?  Has my partner, my dear man, even noticed?  Have the girls awoken, called out for their mama?  Probably not.  I feel invisible and start to question if I even exist.  Fuck.  These kind of thoughts are a bad sign.  The anxiety has returned, and has been threatening to return for a little while now.  The sadness.  The shame.

I continue on down Lygon Street.  It’s not only my thoughts clouding my head, it’s the sensory overload.  The bright lights of traffic.  The ding of the number eight tram.  People streaming in and out of restaurants, enjoying their Friday night.  I suddenly feel self-conscious and cold in my summer kaftan and pyjama pants.  Another sign my marbles are slowly rolling away: I’m walking down a busy street wearing pyjama pants.  Paranoia seeps in and I know I need to stop and sit and rest.  I suddenly need to be invisible, an observer on the edges.  There’s safety in that.

As I sit on a park bench at the corner of a busy intersection I watch the busyness and the normality of people coming and going.  They walk in small groups.  They laugh and share company, seemingly free of worry and responsibility.  I begin to wonder if anyone else feels this sadness and despair and darkness.  I know they must, but like me, find a way to mask the pain.  As the temperature drops and darkness descends I know I need to return home.  What other choice do I have?  Keep running, literally?  No, I’ve got to get my shit together.

On the walk home I try to cobble together my thoughts, the constructive ones.  I should know how to figure this stuff out, I’ve been here before.  I resolve to be kinder to myself, to ask for help, and get some balance back in my life.  I’m telling myself all the right things, but know it’s easier said than done.

I reach home and quietly wander back in.  The girls have not awoken.  I feel tired and sad and foolish.  I could sleep for days but know that it will be another night of broken sleep, and feeding, and an early start.  I give myself permission to just lie down and rest and let the feelings wash over me.  Tomorrow is another day.  Tomorrow I will figure it out.

 Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how hard you study something or try to remember the details, in the moment you think you have taken it all in. I’m trying to remember what his ceiling looks like.  God knows I stared up at it often enough; when he slipped out of his room to take a quick shower and shave, or to make us cheese toasties and a cup of tea, or while he was sleeping.

The house he lives in (if he’s still there) is a Californian bungalow, a rental he shares with two much younger boys. It has the feel of having been a family home.  The carpet is that 1950’s mid-grey with floral bouquets on it. In the kitchen the walls still have the original 1960’s wallpaper covered in vines, but there are patches of apple-green paint showing in places where the paper has begun to curl at the edges.  That’s what I’ve been doing for the last 2 years- curling at the edges.  What’s been hiding underneath for over 30 years is starting to show.

I feel that if I can remember what the ceiling looks like then all of the stuff that came to light is true, and if not then I must be crazy. At least that is how I am being made to feel. No-one wants to know the truth since it is so preposterous. Even I think that. About the truth they can think what they like.  However, no-one has the right to tell me how I’m feeling. My feelings are true.

Before I can tell you about the ceiling I need to describe the rest of his bedroom.  His room is at the front of the house and is attached to the verandah. The bedroom looks to the east and has 2 hinged windows that he always leaves open.  Just because they are always open doesn’t mean you can see into his room, because you can’t.  He can see out well enough though- onto a sparse front lawn, a cyclone fence waist high painted white and beyond that  a large paper bark tree on the nature-strip.  Even though it is a dead-end street it is a thoroughfare for pedestrians because it opens out onto a neighbourhood park with barbecues and a playground.  There are always a few cars parked out the front but given it is in a busy northern suburb it is still a quiet place to live.

Covering the bedroom windows hang curtains left behind by the previous female occupant of that room.  I quite liked them and he is definitely fond of his newly acquired patchwork courderouy curtains. Pale blue, tan, cream and washed-out red they are.  They sort of match his wooden bedhead with the cane insert.  He often said how much he liked his bedhead. I can’t say that I liked it.  It was plain and worn.  The bed itself was another story- an ensemble and very very comfortable.  Again, it was a parting gift to him because it was too cumbersome or costly for the previous owner to take with them.  Given his hardship it was a huge bonus to be left the bed.

The feelings he had about the bed and curtains are significant because it is probably the first bedroom he has been able to call his own- possibly ever. When you consider that it wasn’t that long ago that he was living on the streets.  It’s shocking and incredible to think that a once happily married man with a beautiful wife, two healthy growing boys, a professional career and several properties to his name could end up living in his car and then eventually, literally, living on the streets and in squats.  I hope he comes full circle some day soon.

The ceiling was pretty.  He liked it and so did I.  But it had one small fault near the centre rose.  The ceiling was divided by moulding into nine squares.  At the intersections of these moulding were flowers. Positioned over the centre rose was a simple frosted light fitting.  Around the rose was moulding in a diamond shape.  Between the two there were leaves in relief.  Along three sides you could count five leaves but along the fourth there was only four. For some reason one side was short of one. I can’t imagine why this happened.  But the problem is that once you are aware of the mistake it keeps your attention, you are drawn to it.  Much like I was drawn to him. Exactly as I was drawn to him.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Ever seen a mouse plague? At first it looks like a rolling grey sea of velvet, a mass without borders or shape. Then your eye is caught by a flash of light, a flicked tail, a panicky eye and with a sudden horror you realise they are individual mice, thousands upon thousands of them. They’re starving and unstoppable.

We’re on Dublin dock. It’s 1850, the final in five long years of famine. Against the misty backdrop of a Dublin morning, slick cobble stones, creaking wooden ships, swearing sailors, there are piles and piles of rags. Who would export such dross? But wait. A child lifts his eyes, squints into the gloom. And the starving crowd is revealed. Just like a mouse plague, without the life. Scarecrows, the lot of them. Filthy, grey, bedraggled skeletons, some holding babies too malnourished to cry, some stretched sideways, some crouched in silent communion with a god they’ll never trust again. They’re waiting – what choice do they have? – to be loaded like sheep onto the floating hulks, and shipped away. Away.

An agonising death awaits. They know this. They’ve long ago resigned themselves to that grisly fate; for what could possibly be worse than lying in a ditch in your beloved emerald country, with the stench of rotten spuds in your nostrils and the sound of your children’s wailing turning into sobs, then rasped breathing, then silence?
So. One by excruciating one, the people hobble, limp, drag themselves up gangways. The coffin ships fill quickly. And then make room for more. And more. Entire villages, families, streets, neighbours, crush forward until their groans mingle with that of the ancient timbers.

Among the melee, a slight, bespectacled man moves quietly but intently. He pauses often, resting a hand on a shoulder here, bending to whisper sympathy there. Occasionally he stops, placing his medicine bag on the ground, and rummages for some potion or tincture, perhaps a bandage. He offers medicine where he can, comfort where he must.

One scrawny man, who could’ve been 15 or 50, turns his face up to the doctor. ‘If we see y’ in the new country, then there’s a heaven after all.’

The doctor leans down to hold his hand, murmurs a prayer, holds his gaze. ‘See you in Melbourne, boy-oh. See you then.’

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I see a sunflower outside my window-sill. Its body held strong with pride, while its leaves collapse with exhaustion – like an old women leaning on her walking stick, urging her body forward, while craving for some stability.

I observe its arms. They were young and supple once. A brilliant emerald green – once full of life. Now, the colour of death. Death. What is the colour of death? Well, I now see it before me. The yellow petals, once vibrant yellow, almost gold shimmering in the sunlight, now a putrid shade of citrus, burning your insides when you look it, and leaving a sour aftertaste in your mouth.

I can see its eyes. They stare back at me through its face. Its yellow face that stares at me when I bend down and touch it – it almost sences me approaching when I reach out to support its broken and fragile body, and it shudders, like I had stepped on it. Maybe I did? Maybe it has too much pride to be aided, and its saying, no, this is my battle to be won. I came into the world myself, and I’ll enter the world myself, bitch. Ok calm down little flower.

I see its lungs.  This little creature is on its last breath. I can almost see it as it wheezes in and out, in and out. It’s faint heartbeat in its feet, pounding through its roots, trying to stand erect whilst its eyes look ahead to the sunset – one which may never come. Saddened, I look a little closer.

I see a soul. It’s like this soul is bursting though its orifices, in its colouring, in its life force, saying ‘Stay alive, Stay alive! Don’t die! I’ll never die!” And it wills itself to keep on trying, to keep on living. But why? Just to struggle another day, to stand tall just to be knocked back down again? I see this little creature has decided to keep on living, and to keep on trying. But why? I listen. 

Sound. I can hear its voice, it actually whispers to me as I sit next to it. It tells me stories, of its journey to get to where it is now. This creature wanted to be an entity that was there to be admired, and to be seen as a token of light and hope. I suddenly look again, and realize that I am talking to a women. And hearing what she has been through. Her name is Kia. Nothing cliché like sunny, or something along those lines. Just Kia. I really like that name. Kia. Kia. Kia?

But suddenly she starts to sway, and then starts to fall towards the ground. I grab her before she hits the pavement. “Kia!” I yell out. She lays there, and then slowly opens her heavy eyelids. She looks at me long and hard, and I hold my breath as I wait for her to say something. But she just sits there with her mouth open, gazing intently into my eyes, as if trying to get across some meaning. I continue to hold my breath, and she continues to hold hers, until I cannot hold mine any longer and have to let go. But she continues to lay there, still as a rock, until I realize. I cant hear anything. Nothing. Not a thud, or a whisper, or a grunt, or a laugh. Nothing. And that is when I realize. it is over.

She is no longer with us. Her lungs, her eyes, her soul, her sound is no longer with us. And she has transcended to something supposedly much more beautiful, and moved on to a bigger and better place. I suddenly look to the sky, tears in my eyes and say, “You tried so hard, but for what!” I stand up and shout “Why, what is the point of it all, you gave me hope, and now your gone and all I have to look forward to is to is death!!”And as I slowly looked away, I suddenly could see a little green sprout forming just to the right of my left foot, and I slowly kneel down to look at it. Its fresh smile and beaming energy suddenly uplifts me, and I suddenly feel at peace and calm.

You didn’t leave me, I say out loud. And I didn’t expect an answer.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

How could driving on our wide and spacious carriageways around this lovely Victorian city in 2020 be a point of reflection and meditation? Well- short answer -it can’t be! It’s akin to modern day warfare.

If you somehow manage to zone out while cruising along like Nana down Flemington Road leaning into the inner lane looking like a lopsided three wheeled pram, you will soon find out that you will be spotted.

They will find you and awaken you from your inner sanctuary within your comfortable steel and glass cocoon that emits carbon into the atmosphere unceasingly while inside you snooze to Jonie Mitchell or Jon Faine ( No- he still hasn’t retired.) They say now that climate change has passed the tipping point and we’ve gone too far. But she’s not thinking of that. She just wants to get home and turn on the air conditioner. The real world isn’t happening in her cocoon, but its coming and you can’t ignore it.

The red sationwagon that gleams like a dozen suns and sounds like a dozen suns too screeches up behind you so close you can’t read his rego. He blasts the horn and you are shaken from your meditation on how to solve the water crisis or was it the musing on the stark beauty of the Texan desert in the Joni song?

But its gone now anyway as you stare down the rear vision tunnel at a sunglassed, baseball capped young man waving a fist and obviously yelling but all you can hear is the next radio tune- Cheap Trick you think- an old favorite- “Surrender”. But this is no time for that. Your heart rate increases and you rise from your revere to think quickly of an escape strategy.

“How do I get away from this dude?” A quick scan shows that a quick left may spare you any confrontation as red wagon man continues to rage behind you. Oh God he’s trying to get past you and come along side to continue his rant. I hope he hasn’t got a gun or other weapons on hand to help him vent his spleen! Where are the highway cops when you need them? Probably laid off like half of the public service.

The heart rate increases as you try not to look at him and wish three B double trucks would appear so you could hide in amongst their splendid gleaming large wheels like a chick amongst her brood- protected from predators.

But red wagon man is making his way into the next lane pushing in like a spoilt child wanting to get all the chocolates before anyone else. A thought crosses her mind amongst the growing sheer panic as he continues to inch closer at a faster pace. She thinks his number plate would be important to note. It’s probably something like “Avenger” or “Toxic Madman” written with those cryptic numbers meaning to be letters. Some people must have more money than they know what to do with! Why waste it on tagging a machine. Surely it must be a sign of some form of mental delinquency? How can such a young guy even afford to drive such a beast? Surely it must be worth at least 50 grand? Maybe he’s just flown down from the mines where there is no traffic and they earn more in a month than she could in a year. Maybe he’s  been laid off from the mines with the last downturn- which is an even worse thought! That’s it she thought- he’s an alien from the desert unused to how Melbourne traffic is. But now he’s right up next to her as she scours the road ahead for an exit from this flow. The road is a raging bitumen river that sucks all within its vortex and she is seeking an eddy to escape into.

The new tunnel roadworks (aka The Black Hole) that finally removed the government due to its cost blowouts, corruption and lack of foresight suddenly appear up ahead and she scoots off to the detour towards the bridge plastered against the setting sun in the grey heat haze. Meanwhile the redwagon man with his gleaming dozen suns machine gives a farewell blast to edge her on in a cloud of dust blown in from a passing overloaded tram.

Safety at last! She glances back and reads his rego- Western Australian- Car Nut3- appropriately the U was slightly obscured.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

Born nearly 20 years after their last child, to parents already in their 40’s and 50’s, my childhood was far from conventional.  While well meaning, my mother, and to a lesser degree, my father, always took the “line of least resistance” approach to parenting.  Weary of the demands of a small child, when they were readying to move onto the next stage of their lives meant that they basically gave in to anything I wanted.

My mother returned to work when I was a very small baby, but my childhood nanny, who took over where she left off, told me stories many years later of a devoted mother, who caught to bus to her house during her lunch break every day, so that she could breastfeed me.  I’ve become very fond of this memory that I can’t remember, as it means for a time, her love for me was bigger than her demons.

One of my earliest memories is of visiting my mother in a psychiatric hospital.  It was memorable due to me being attacked by another patient, leading my father to declare that I would not be allowed to return – and so it was. 

At the time, no one could understand my mother’s descent into mental illness.  Not my father, not my brother and sister who were in their 20’s and had grown up with a “normal” mother – and certainly not me.  I remember a woman that could be loving, expansive, generous and affectionate, and I adored her.  I remember a woman that took to her bed for weeks at a time, howling and rocking and accusing everyone of not loving her.  It was many years later before we understood that our love for her was no match for how much she hated herself.

As a teen, I saw my mother slide further into alcoholism, and an addiction to prescription medication – anything that would dull the pain she was in.  Drinking made her angry, and it could make her mean.  Mostly she was mean to me, as she saw my moving towards independence as a betrayal of her.  Many times, she locked me out of the house, with herself inside, and all the shutters pulled down, and would yell out to me that she had taken an overdose.  I would ask the neighbours to alert the police and ambulance, while I sat patiently on the front fence, waiting to be allowed to go inside, as though it was just a regular afternoon.  Sometimes she had taken something, and sometimes she hadn’t, in fact, the only time I am sure she did was when she emptied a bottle of pills into her mouth right in front of me, and swallowed.

My mother was never able to beat her demons.  Despite the many suicide attempts, and threats, she didn’t want to die, but she couldn’t find a way to live with what was tormenting her.  In the end, the years of abuse of her body, mostly by lighting one fag from the butt of another, from when she got up to when she went to bed, claimed her at the relatively young age of 65.

The painful legacy that she left was a child who was left wondering how she fell so far short of ideal that her mother couldn’t even be bothered trying to be like everyone else’s mother, and for many years, I laid the blame for this squarely on my own shoulders.  This was a burden that I carried for 13 years after her death, until I had a child of my own.  Even with a life unburdened by mental illness, some time in that first year of my babies life, I suddenly “got” my mother.  I saw the joy that would have come with my birth.   I smiled at the woman that got on the bus for a round trip that took all of her lunch break, so that she could have a connection with her baby.  I saw a woman that was almost certainly suffering from postnatal depression – something that was pretty much unheard of back then – and this left her open to self -doubts that had been under the surface for many years.  Without help, it was easy to see how quickly these things got bigger than her.

With the birth of my own child, I saw that my mother loved me, and I forgave her.  And in the process, I forgave myself.