Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
If this were the last time I was to ever write… what would come?
If I were to write like I was on fire, what would come…
That crack from a recent eulogy I heard about- to dance like your vagina’s on fire… Sure. But there’s still nine minutes of writing time…
If this were the last thing I was to ever write, what would come.
Gratitude, for this pen, these hands, everything that has led me here, to this room full of women, and one man, to learn & keep learning. To love & to keep loving.
Katy Perry is Roar-ing for the Sliders outside!
Of course.
Also, whoever reads this, (and surely someone will, it’s gunna be published!) should, the next time they are in Hobart, get to the Tasmanian Quartermasters for an ice cream sandwich!
If this were to be the final piece I ever wrote, what would it be. A record? A memoir? A perfectly crafted poem, a metaphor for all that is fleeting, and beautiful & dissonant. Would it be flimsy and superficial. Hyperbolic & Superlative. Would it ache with honesty & insight. Would lovers weep to read it, naked & entangled in their bed. Would mothers recite it to their babes in arms, an incantation. Would it be a list of failures, hopes, dreams, desires, should haves, would haves, could haves. Would it even matter in the end. What was written. How. Or for Whom?
Or would it just be one more space between inhalation and exhalation, another moment of Life making a way to know itself. To make sense of this beingness called Human. Woman. Daughter. Dancer. Writer… Would any of it even matter?
And in the end, what else even is there?
Add ‘published author’ to my obit.
Also, my back aches.
And there are chores to do.
And errands to run.
The walls are orange. The ceiling is green…
The walls are orange. The ceiling is green.
The
walls
are
orange.