Category Archives: Gunnas-Masters

Alfred Street – Dan Break

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The party was dull. More dull than he predicted. He stood staring blankly at the lattice slice for what turned out to be way too long. What did it mean? Was it munchies for the stoners? Was it an ironic attack upon the previous generation? Was it an empowering stance against body fascism?

“Dude? Do you want a slice?” It was the second time the host had asked and all of the enthusiasm had drained from his tone.

“No. No thank you.” The host moved on and Marcus was left again to stand alone in the living room. He figured it was at least another hour before he could convince Emily that he’d had a great time. That she was right. That he just needed to get out more and be with people. He would thank her and squeeze her hand. He took another sip off his beer and went back to trying to make sense of the gathering.

Rich kids. Every line of reasoning led him back to the same conclusion. They are rich kids. Their parents support them to study. They don’t have to work. They are bored. So they hold a party and feign interest in each other. He let the conclusion morph into a smug little grin too soon. Landon, who worked the same shitty night fill gig he did was chatting animatedly in a group across the room. Fuck it. That’s it for the living room them.

He was running out of skulking options. Emily was on the back deck. If she saw him alone she would start introducing to people. The bathroom was out too. It was full to bursting and emanating a lively political debate, or at least two monologues rhythmically lacing over each other with unpleasant cadence. The front stairs turned out to be inhabited by two people feeding of each other’s reciprocal interest. Who even does that anymore? Marcus thought. Everyone pairs off online. Surely? He stepped past them and into the front yard. Their conversation paused so he had to keep walking with manufactured purpose down and around and under the house.

The cement laundry sink, the only well-lit object, presented itself like a museum artefact. He moved through the shadowy people, refusing to let his brain process the snippets of conversation as he went, and arrived at the ice filled sink. Well. So be it. Marcus swallowed the warm half a stubby in his hand. His faithful prop of the last 2 hours. He reached into the ice and retrieved the five remaining beers in the six-pack he brought. It had been his notion, in fact his entire preoccupation since he arrived to not touch them. Leave them undrunk. Somehow, to abandon five beers he couldn’t really afford at some party he desperately didn’t want to be at was to be some kind of subversive act. Some kind of great joke on everyone.

Wandering back through the drone of infuriating conversation he found an empty couch. At the end of the uneven brick paving, facing a patch of dry dirt and lattice work flanked by the cement pillar foundations of the old Queenslander. Slumping without elegance into the crusty couch he could immediately taste the stale dust cloud in his mouth. He took the first sip of fresh cold beer and nodded slowly to himself. Yup. I will get drunk. I will make an appearance for Em. I will sneak home. I will fight an orgasm out of my cock and I will find sleep. Drinking deeply he wrestled with whether his depression was an indulgence or a problem. As he eyes adjusted to the light he realised he might be forming a silhouette. An invitation on the otherwise empty couch. He quickly slid onto the dusty floor. Sat with his back to the couch and cradled his beers into his lap.

But he was too late. He felt, rather than heard the space behind him become full with a human being. Sighing indignantly he drove deep into a list of automated polite refusals of company but none made it to his mouth. Before he could turn a foot pushed him in the back. Not sharply. Not even hard. But it caught him off balance and he collapsed, almost in slow motion, onto the ground. Marcus was still trying to construct the sentence as he spat dust from his mouth.

“I. I don’t really feel like company.” He felt his shirt run damp with the spilt beer.

“Don’t you?” The voice of a woman. Amused. Almost delighted. A foot pressed into his back. He felt the dull thump of the other.

“I… um… I…” His shirt was now soaked. His mouth was still full of dust.

“You want me to take your feet off your back. You would like to get up out of the dirt.” Her words came deliberate and slow. Marcus replayed them in his head. Tried to decipher whether they were questions or observations. For the first time since he could remember Marcus was suddenly present in the moment. He suddenly had something to think about that was actually happening. But of all the puzzles he had pondered this evening, what was happening was completely beyond him. There was only one thing that he was certain about. His cock was rock hard.

“No.” He spoke clearly. “No I do not want those things.”

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Run hard – Mereana Otene Waaka

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

I went to get a book I lent him. I knocked at the door of the housing complex he lived in. Someone let me into the kitchen. I went to his room. Knocked. He was there, merry, all smiles and friendship.

“Come in” he said ”Tea? Coffee?” There was no chair so I sat on the neatly made bed. “Wanna watch a dvd?’ overfriendly. “ Nope , Ive just come for the book, I need it” Hes made me a cup of weak , milky tea, the cups half full, just the way I don’t like it. “ Do you wanna watch a dvd?” Hes still puttering around, quick , sharp  movements, busy. He grabs his laptop, puts it on a chair he pulls from beneath a pile of stuff. He opens the laptop. A big cockroach walks desultorily across the side of his desk, checks its email on its iphone and adjusts its aldi bag. “One of my friends” he says with a crooked smile. Its in no hurry, looks like its just done its grocery shopping. It looks tired, adjusts it antennae. I look at the dvd, now playing on the laptop screen, the image is scattered into a thousand pieces of disconnected light. “Your screen is broken” I say. He looks and points to the bottom lefthand corner “there” he points  “you can see the picture better there” I can see something but without the other pieces I cant make out what Im seeing. I realise, hes pissed. Totally plastered. Him not whatevers on the laptop screen. Ive seen him like this before, all dandelion flowerheads, bright and breezy, jumping about like a busy flea. Once upon a time I would’ve slipped into his delusional dream, his aldi bag enclave of drying washing and food on the counter chaos.

Now I jump to my feet and say “don’t worry, ill come back another day’. He looks like a naughty boy, caught out. He reaches out ,tries to engage me, makes silly noises I used to find hilarious. “AAAck” he says ‘EEEEEEE’ like the sound of air being let out of a balloon. I don’t know whether to be sorry or laugh. Laughing at him. That’s what got me in there in dreamland in the first place. I open the door, look back to the empty bed, the mess, the cockroach and broken laptop, the man that looks like a pissed Peter Pan. I used to think that’s what love is. I close the door, run hard, don’t look back.

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Liberty Valance – Ian Cunliffe

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Facebook plays fast and loose. Australia’s regulator fiddles.

Most Australians are on Facebook. Facebook has more than 15 million Australian users. Facebook collects masses of personal information about Australians – probably more than anyone else. But it flouts Australian privacy laws with apparent impunity.

A primary Facebook obligation is to publish a Privacy Policy which enables Australians to complain to Facebook and get prompt redress for privacy breaches.   A correspondence exchange three years ago between the Australian regulator, the Australian Information and Privacy Commissioner, and Facebook is on the regulator’s website. Facebook stonewalled, declining to have a document called “Privacy Policy”. The need for a viable complaints system wasn’t even mentioned in the correspondence.

Facebook argued that the Irish authorities were happy with its “Data Retention Policy”, and, in effect, that was good enough. For good economic reasons, doubtless Ireland is totally in the thrall of Facebook. The Australian Privacy Commissioner seemed to cop it sweet.

I work both sides of the street on privacy regulation: as a practising lawyer for individuals with privacy complaints; and part time as privacy officer for an Australian member services organisation.

Five months ago, a mate complained that he had been put on Facebook, with a profile and photos. My mate – now my client – doesn’t even own a computer. He wants anonymity – as is his right.

So I googled Facebook, expecting to find its Privacy Policy and address for complaints. Easily done. However I couldn’t find any Australian address – physical or virtual – or any phone number for Facebook. Snail mail to Ireland or the US were the suggested options.

So I emailed info@facebook.com – presumably in the US – arguing a serious breach of privacy and asked for my client’s immediate removal. I was directed to “the Help Center” (sic) website. Nothing relevant was there. So I emailed info@facebook.com again but got no response.
Accordingly, I complained to the Australian Privacy Commissioner, attaching my correspondence with Facebook and pointed to Facebook’s non compliance with the Privacy Act.

The Commissioner’s Office (the OAIC) was quite unhelpful. It comprised information I already knew about the Privacy Act and OAIC, and showed that OAIC had totally misinterpreted my request – which was that it should get Facebook to obey Australian law.
I immediately wrote back to OAIC arguing that my client did not supply any information to Facebook and had not consented to Facebook obtaining his personal information or disclosing it.
I added that I could not find a Facebook Privacy Policy which even remotely complied with Australian law, thus preventing Australians getting redress for privacy breaches. I concluded that Facebook thumbs its nose at Australian privacy protections.

About a month before I first complained to him, the Privacy Commissioner released a Report [23 September 2016] that OAIC had examined “the privacy policies of 45 businesses used by Australian consumers every day”, finding that:

  • 71 per cent failed to properly explain how information was stored; and
  • 38 per cent didn’t include easily identifiable contact details for complaints.

The Commissioner said his office is working with businesses to improve.

Given Facebook’s massive size and role as a probably the biggest dealer in the personal information of Australians, the Privacy Commissioner should give very high priority to ensuring that Facebook is squeaky clean. It is anything but, and the regulator seems paralysed. Is it fear or awe?

 

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Feeling Vulnerable & A smidge courageous – Natalie LeSueur

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Two summers ago I read an article in The Age that changed the course of my life.It was an article about The Foster Girls and their courageous parents.
This is for them
Shame had kept me silent.
I spoke at The Royal Commission.
I am here for those who’s lives were ruined by men of the church and this Institution.
This is not about winning or losing its about showing up and being seen.
This is about knowing something and not being silent
This is who I want to be.I want to be that person who stands up for her rights.I want to be that person.
I was groomed in a very calculated way.
He said he was a man of god and that I should do what he says.
This went on for 2 years.
By the age of 13 I decided to take my own life.
I took some of my mothers sleeping tablets.I woke up.
Fast forward….
You have to trust that you can survive your own emotions and
@ 44 I realised that I have been fighting with myself all of my life.
Sometimes you just need to show up for yourself.I started to see and Have compassion for myself as I would a friend as if I heard this story from them.I learned to have a deep Love for my younger self.
And myself now
Intuition has been my savour.
There are people who know you and people that understand you.I need to be understood.
And as I grew up I began to understand that People are still not who I think they are but that was not my concern anymore.
I realised I was not depressed when I was younger I was just really fucking sad.
I’m sad I lost my childhood which I am now reminded of bringing up incredibly balanced,strong willed,extraordinarily amazing young females with parents that love them and more importantly support them emotionally & are present whole heartedly in their lives.
Lucky I woke up
This is what I learnt
Love yourself
This is how I survived
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The Dish Ran Away with the Spoon – Paul Baks

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The little boy kicked the dirt and dust that was one lawn in his mother’s backyard. The dust clouds exploded under his feet and settled slowly and gently back onto the ground. He scratched and scraped until boredom demanded another task. He pulled off the Autumnal leaves that popped off the branches almost in relief. He studied the veins and lifelines of the almost but not yet crunchy leaves, then screwed them up and watch the slowly ragain their shape.

In the distance he heard the changing of gears of a motorbike and the brakes of a big truck.

Soon he felt it coming. And then he saw it. At first a speck in the sky and then its shape formed. It was the man. The man with the tanned arms and rough leathery hands. This, he thought, was what a man’s hands should look like and feel like. The strong brown arms picked him up and lifted him into the air. The two flew up high into and above the clouds, then swooped towards the backyard. In a big swinging arc they flew over the neighbourhood. Over the school, the park, the footy ground.

He saw his mum in the backyard and he gave her a wave, she waved back smilingly. The man flew him home, let him go and scruffed up his hair. A wink and a return wink.

 

And the little boy laughed just to feel such joy.

 

And the dish ran away with the spoon.

 

 

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What Does Post-Gay Mean To Me – Shaun Miller

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

Being gay – or certainly growing up gay – can involve trauma for many people.  Trauma for the young gay person.  Trauma for the young gay person’s family and friends who are cowered into a “don’t ask, don’t tell” mentality.  Or worse still “ask but don’t tell”.

Coming out of the closet involves relief, liberation, freedom, new horizons and a whole new positively electrifying outlook on life.

Then, after the clubbing, the parties, the parades, the activism, the therapy re-visiting and re-mapping the past to understand the identity of being who you are in the here and now, comes a new phase: being post-gay.

Being post-gay means being gay without that being a central element in your life.  It means going to any clubs, not just gay clubs.  It means being a writer without only writing about gay topics or characters.  It means being a comedian without telling gay jokes.  It means being a politician without just campaigning on gay issues.  It means travelling to New York City without making a pilgrimage to Stonewall.  It means having a kaleidoscope of close friends, not just close gay friends.

If being gay is liberating, being post-gay is truly emancipating.  Being post-gay means having progressed into an evolved soul, whereupon in life you can always be yourself, because everyone else is already taken.

Being gay is winning the battle.  Being post-gay is winning the war.  And finally being at peace.

 

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The fortunate one- written – Fortunata Maria Callipari

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

 

I was born in 1967 to Catholic Italian Parents-

Can you believe they both had the same name?

Giuseppe and Giuseppa- the male derivative of the female derivative of the male derivative

Translated you will recognise Joseph or Joe or Pep- Josephine or Josie or Peppa- J- o- for short

When I was born it was not about giving me a name

Oh no- It was about the politics of gender equity

And male privilege mixed with Italian cultural practice- that it is the right of the Father to name the first born children by the names of his the parents.

I was the third born.

My predecessors – sister and brother were both named after their grandparents- My Father’s Mum and Dad.

Dad was one of five boys so imagine with so many cousins named Elena and Michael left us all asking “which one” are you talking about?

In those days arranged marriage was the beginning of a relationship.

When I came along my parents had been married seven years- yes – I was the seven-year itch baby!

So my namesake was debated-

My Father wanted naming rights –

My Mother wanted the right to name me after her Mother Esther, given she had complied with tradition on the last two occassions- she felt it was only a fair exchange.

But alas my Father insisted I be named after his Grandmother- Fortunata

There he had spoken, had given the order, and that was final –

or so he thought.

While Pep was not looking, Peppa snuck in a second name on the birth certificate – Maria

Fortunata Maria

As I grew up- Maria stuck- because it was a deliberate rebellious action, subtle but significant as the women’s lib movement took off in Australia- my Mother graciously stood her ground because every Italian family needed a Maria, and Maria was a good name for someone like me.

Over the years I’ve had many people sing to me

“Maria, I just met a girl called Maria”- a very romantic song making me feel like the most attractive woman in the world

that others may find me so beautiful and fall in love with me.

The other song is not so endearing:

“How do you solve a problem like Maria”

Which I have reconfigured as

How do you solve a problem? Call Maria!

I’ve taught myself positivity, the art of being and enlightenment and see myself as the problem solver, connector and a global citizen.

 

Then I think about the song Sympathy for the Devil, The Rolling Stones

“Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But what’s puzzling you
Is the nature of my game”

Of course this song says more about the reputation of the stones, than it says anything about me- the power of song, lyrics, tunes are important to me, and as the song says Please allow me to introduce myself tonight, I am the fortunate one!

 

To bring you up to date with what happened since I was born here is a list of events in sequential order over a 50 year period

Grew up on a farm in Mildura

Left home at 18 to study in Melbourne

Taught drama and media at a secondary school

Left teaching

Got a mortgage

Worked in the community sector

Retrained in arts marketing and management

Got married

Gave birth to a 4.8 kilograms bundle of joy, appropriately named MAX

Got a job in local government

Built a new house

Got another mortgage

Looking for next career move

The present

 

I joined La Voce Della Luna an Italian Women’s choir recently-

When I arrived there were four women who introduced themselves to me as Maria- So bring forth Fortunata. I am reconnecting with my cultural heritage by learning Italian folksongs.

Being with this group of women reveals the diversity within the culture and the unique qualities of each person- it’s exciting to be part of something bigger than myself and to contribute to the next generation of choir, keeping traditions alive and kicking. A quote that I love by Gutav Maher is Tradition is not to preserve the ashes but to pass on the fire. The choir is 20 years old and the majority of original members are aged between 40 – 86 years –

Now I proudly use Fortunata Maria Callipari to honour both parents equally and because it makes me feel happy when I think that it means Lucky Maria-

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The Ride of My Life – and it didn’t Involve a bike – Maureen Pound

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

I hadn’t had a date in 7 years. Who am I kidding? I hadn’t had SEX in 7 years.
No banging, no bonking, no bushwacking. The train had left the station, people!
It was definitely time to get back out there. I just didn’t know it at the time.
It was 48 degrees as I peddled my way along the bumpy road in Thailand, pushing my way though the overwhelming desire to stop. I was joining 50 entrepreneurs getting their lycra on and riding 500 kms in 5 days to raise money for Thai children without parents.
I had put in a fair amount of training in the month leading up to the ride. I lost 7 kgs and got myself fit enough to get through each day. I was slow but I was doing it. It was a good effort I thought, considering I hadn’t put by butt on a bike seat for about 10 years.
On the third night of the ride, after an extreme day climbing hills, we sat down after dinner to get to know each other better. We were each asked to share our motivation for doing the ride.
The stories were confronting and they just kept coming. The woman whose grandfather had taken away her self-belief through abuse; the man who had neglected his body by putting on 60kgs. They were sharing how the commitment to the ride and the Thai children had changed the course of their lives.
It was all so humbling and slightly uncomfortable at the same time.
As the evening progressed, I hadn’t shared my story yet and I was getting nervous. What WAS my story, anyway? What had MY journey been about?
I was second last to share. As I headed to the front of the room, I kept changing my mind. How could I be sincere and funny and real and make an impact? I had this real desire to do a good job.
Then the words raced out of my mouth….
“I have two amazing IVF anonymous donor children and my life for the past seven years has been about providing for them. And in doing so, I have neglected myself. Coming on the ride was a selfish thing in many ways. Taking time to get fit and having time away from the kids. Doing something for me”.
It was all true. I wanted an adventure just for me. And it was working. I really WAS feeling great. I felt strong. I felt sexy. I felt like the best version of myself.
And something strange was happening. Attention was coming my way. Gorgeous men were laughing with me, spending time with me, riding back to support me when I was at the back of the pack.
This attention and flirting and support from the other riders was awakening something within me.
Now being the second last to share my story that night, there was polite attention but it was getting late. People were a bit distracted. My story so far was nice but nothing special….
I was getting anxious but I continued.
“So in looking after my children and not myself, I have not been dating. In fact I have had not date a SINGLE  date in seven years.”
Polite smiles from a few people, some surprised looks but others were gazing at the door.
I had to built it up; make an impact. What could I say?
I deepened my voice, slowed myself down and took a deep breath.
“So I pledge to EVERYONE here tonight… that I am going to go home…. and get LAID!”
A big cheer erupted in the room.
I had done it!
Oh no, What had I done?
Made a commitment to 50 people I hardly knew that I would be GETTING IT ON back in Melbourne!
Geez.  I didn’t even know any single men…
Three days after returning to Melbourne I posted one word on our riders Facebook page.
“Tick”.
Everyone know what it meant.
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Solace Street – Robin Butler

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

Daphne turned the corner, heaved the shopping bag back onto her shoulder, sucked in a lungful of hot, dusty air, and took off again with her house now in sight.

A walk to the shops had seemed like a good idea, save the environment and all that, but it really was stinking hot. Every so often the tar on the road would feel sticky under her sandshoe and she could feel a trickle of sweat running down the back of her neck. Black T-shirt and jeans were probably not the best choice for an outdoor adventure.

As she neared her house she spied the neighbour’s child playing in the gravel that ran up the middle of their concrete driveway. She was focussed on building roads, and little dwellings made with sticks and leaves, and a creek lined with shiny blue marbles but looked up as Daphne checked the mail.

‘Hello there’, Daphne said, but as usual the girl just stared at her with big, brown eyes that were almost black. ‘This kid is weird’, she thought, but smiled in what she hoped was a benign and friendly fashion. Kids always made her feel a bit uneasy. They watched and judged you, all the while working out how they could manipulate you. She couldn’t see the appeal.

Dropping the shopping on the front porch, she rummaged blindly in her overly large bag for her keys while looking over the front yard. It was overgrown with weeds and long grass, brown and yellow from the summer and crisp to the touch. A ‘tinder box’, she thought wryly, as she struggled with the lock and pushed the door open with her hip. Calico immediately sprung through the open door, meowing and winding around himself around her calves in a perfect figure eight and making walking near impossible.

“For fuck’s sake Calico, move!’ she barked, as she tried to manoeuvre down the hall and into the kitchen at the back of the house. She pulled a can of tuna from the shelf under the sink, peeled the lid back and put it into the cat’s bowl before it killed her. She could see the headline now: ‘Mad Cat Lady Killed by Pussy’.

Daphne shoved the cheese, orange juice, grapes and yoghurt in the fridge, grabbed a beer, and headed for the back porch. This was her favourite part of the house. The porch itself was filled with pots of different shapes, sizes and colours that also spilled into the garden. Having rented for years she had grown plants in pots, her own mobile garden. She took a swig of beer, put it on the plank of wood on bricks that substituted as a table, and took a few minutes to bucket water into the pots.

She had only been in the house for six weeks. Her first foray into the property market. It was a deceased estate and had been empty for almost three years while relatives argued over how much they were each entitled to.

According to the real estate brochure, it was ‘charming with the potential to make your own mark!!!’. (Real estate agents love to use a lot of exclamation marks, because houses are very exciting!) In reality, this translated to ‘way too orange and green, sad and neglected, not quite old enough or cute enough to be retro and in desperate need of renovating’.

It wasn’t at all what she was looking to buy, but something about this slightly broken and neglected house got under her skin and she’d jumped in head first.

Iris, Daphne, Rose, Jasmine, River and and Lily.

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Hong Kong Money – Beth Ormston

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER

The first time  they dropped the bomb, people were shocked. The sheer overwhelming incomprehensible scale of the destruction. The loss of life, the ruin of history and civic life. The second time they dropped the bomb, people were stunned. The opposition called it a travesty. Judges and lawyers and academics and teachers spoke out against it. The third time the dropped the bomb, it fell on the opposition, the judges and lawyers, the academics and teachers who spoke out against the second bomb. The third bomb they dropped for spectacle. To celebrate the crowning of the new Queen, the Queen of the mushroom cloud, a fourth bomb was exploded in a small village in her honour.

“I have no idea but one.” said the Queen, upon her inauguration. “Our society is better now. People cannot be fixed. One simply removes the broken ones. We who are left shall make a new world. A better world. Where there is no crime or grime or unexpected ideas that frighten the children and visit our sleeping minds.”

“The bomb, the mushroom cloud has cleansed us.” She mounted the platform but could not take her place upon the throne.

“Someone’s been sitting on my chair.” Someone indeed had been sitting on her throne. And they were still there. It was a small boy.

“You exploded my dog.” He said to the Queen. “I think your bombs are bad.”

The airforce officials surrounding the Queen looked at one another. This was not the plan. They moved towards the boy, ready to lift him from the throne.

“I think your bombs are bad.” He repeated. “But my bombs are good. Especially the one in your crown.”

Before the Queen could throw the crown from her head, ‘POP’, went the crown and ‘poof’ went her head in a puff of smoke.

But the Queen did not fall over. She stayed completely upright and, from her smoking neck, a strange voice shrieked “Arrgghg!” Get the boy!”

The airforce blokes did not know what to do. What was that thing they thought had been their Queen. Is it human? How is it still alive and speaking?

Next minute, a spaceship descended from the clouds and hovered above the platform.

“People of Earth!” Came the sound of the loudspeaker. “Submit to our will. Hand over your chocolates and bananas and Karl Stefanovic and ten Hong Kong dollars and we will go in peace.”

And the people celebrated. Because although they mourned the loss of all of the chocolate and bananas in the world, they were happy that Karl had gone to share his unique talents with someone, anyone else in the universe. It was worth it.

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