This is a weblog

It is for saying Hello

To the authors and readership of

XY

"Hello"

Some things to know
Within this weblog I have worked to post
A few parts of my writing
Not yet found full belonging
Yet essential at core be
Their gender politicking

The posts thus following
Named here from latest made
To first before the last in sequence displayed
There are poems
Not likely too good but
For you to believe
Except as not normally seen

One to define
Gender relationships mine
And a poem for the Mythos of this
The harder to achieve
Might you read
Yet not need to believe

But then my second prose attempt
To introduce the whole content
In which its evidence is named
Then is the first attempt
To define why this log on the web is
Become rather larger than
I had first intended
But tells the story which
The longest of all of these posts
Will undoubtedly stimulate
A need to find out of
Before falling into the depths from
Too much curiosity in my fate
For in these words wake
Have I never not belonged

And long
While not knowing if you will
Neither want to or need
Knowledge that saltbush in supermarkets
Fulfils religious prophesy’s signage
About the end of the world
Capitalism causes through money
Yet there are those many who believe of not funny
But please read yet
All else I write
Because this song is of the real human plight
That no life at Earth
Will escape of the might
For ever will every child’s right
To live a happier life
Than having motherhood denied
And father’s raped blind
Will the children who learned of
Prove the will to make
The Earth permanently safe

So let it be part of
Your own voiced sorry
Making recompense for the generations
Of Aborigines made wards of the state
That you may just awake
To what buffers you can shake
Yourself out of your own
Strangers comfort zone
And look into the face
Of the real evidence mate
Of the long term repercussions
Of invasion of country
For ever by knowing
The real story below is
Able be tempered for you
Within my own stories the buffer
Of real advocacy through
That may you one day too
Begin to relieve
The conditions imposed wrong upon
Aboriginal men’s love long
For women and country
Fathers and lovers
Never was there greater love known to me
Than that of the buffer they have made me through my story
Of what you may not before have realised
The real evidence is of all deeds
Is why I am asking you read
To decide
For yourselves
What is the truth wise

This is the poem that sets the scene, that despite what comes after, the story proven clean

The Best Pick Up Line

Not out of the blue
Unless you never sensitive to
Yet seldom recognised
In open until love is known
And the matter manifests as
Need for the pick up best
Let me translate sublime
Why Aboriginal men define
What to me means consent but
You yourself may need yet
Beware of the rut
The rent has over charging excuses
That knowledge of thus
This pattern disabuses
Might the words of specifics show up
Excuse me but
Will the man say
Ever so politely
Well mannered not fey
I can’t help from noticing
You seem to have been causing
Upon my own dreaming
That
And as the man will
He might then just
Directly expose of
The part of his anatomy
Politely posing in question
Never without his full dignity
Always fully steady composure
And belief in his own responsibilities
Almost apologetically
Yet without any shame
In what he thus names
Without even saying
The name of the game
And as he exposes
What his body has noticed
He may remark that to cure himself
He’ll have to reconcile the story
And if not with yourself
In accepting your own part in
The situation’s causes
He’ll just gently remind that
Thereby perhaps
There is another woman obliging
To feign being you to find of
What might he have lost count upon
That best just accept
Making his offer
Your own story too
More or less immediately will do
And he’ll have gently thus asked you
By caressing your mind with
His own witness of his
Own culpability in time thus
Make you realise
Yes females are culpable too
That his real ploy
Has been all the time
Implanting within her the bind
Of a grand bout of shame for her kind
Of feigning innocence of mind
And us girls on our part
Will bow down our head
Truly embarrassed to realise
What we’ve caused upon that
Real love provides

The Mythos of the Weblog Defined As For Certain Persons Beware The Find

Paranormal Paranoid Paratrooper’s Parapsychology Bind

When will you find
That what might define
One person’s deaf mind
In one situation unkind
Then in another story mine
Will also define time sublime
As the way to correct of
What ever it then was
They had harmed our mind’s by
In obedience demanded without feeling right
But for reason of lies
So let my work straighten them out for might
We all then sleep better tonight

So when reading this weblog
Of what about my words be
It’ll be easy to imagine
There are things wrong with me
So let me correct up
Up front here to see
You yourself might not need
Fall afoul of the bleed

If my words absurd
Are what Nazis heard
More likely saw as their own
Reflection they’ve grown
Into delusions
About whose side who is on
Be their very own strategy
This reflected back to them upon

For it’s the Nazis among
Australian organised crime blundering
Who imagined that if
They use words as turds
Portraying my own as absurd
Walking along in their own money song
That perhaps they’d get away with
Their Nazi reputations blamed upon me
Might they not have realised
That such a deluded device
Had no social category
Spliced

The meaning is changing
And economy thus naming
Itself as the culprit
For that I will tell of it
In money’s words
Not normally heard
Might I be realised
Of Islam’s idea wise

While if what seems wrong
With me be the song
Of drug users knowledge
Why who do you think it first came from
When by homeopathic medicines long
And to regain my health swallowed
Might my own dreams now well follow
Along with the consciousness of
What opiates pattern
Brain waves cause splattered
Never in my life without
Avoiding the illicit touts

And what is this I’ve traced
In my own dinner not laced
Yet among them who first stole from
Some future they knew not was
To belong to that is
Any of them who wished
That I myself had to be made to seem wrong

To become able to cause of
Yet never so wrong as
To have taken money from
The fellows whose lives to
This my own song
Never upon
What Mark
Chris Spencer Smart
Might have too long told lies to police of
While the worst lie
Was sold by
Not that I
But in Revelations to find
The way paved along
To the tune of Jesus song

In which one day I awoke
To realise the yoke
Of the voice inside
By Babylon find
And if you decide
To help bear with such price
The short phrases that say
Who to money doth play
Will all one day
Steer the same way
Towards every profit becoming
The most overt evidence belonging
To the end of the capitalist
Mode of production

For when any capitalist economy
Is too strongly flourishing
Are prostitutes paid in
The lowest of wages
While when economic crisis the stage
Why prostitutes do demand of
Far higher pay
And how you will know when
Money’s dreams are the right one
To plant seeds of a revolution long begun
Will be that by Babylon
No money sings with racism
Be why so admired upon

So when the fall that
Somebody had to take to make from
Crosses you own story life long
Remember right
Left wing the ring which
In all real culture is
That never in future quiet
The failure to protect children
As has been but for
The cause of Babylon

Those who sought to blame riches upon
All in hell on Earth that’s gone wrong
But by blaming have pursued causing further of
While for me has my game been strong
By biological propensity long
Genealogical forecasts evidence in forfeit
Of worldwide Diaspora wide spread
Never longer the sentence well fed

Might this neat bind
For comprehension of mine
Never belie
The truth of why
But caught are many thieves who
Stole out into the night
In Ali Baba’s guise
But without his plight
And never fully stolen
Could be what is growing
Upon indigenous story well known
Will one day the best man take the throne

Sometimes in the internet I am Matilda, and other times Curaezipirid, but in reality just wanting to say g'day to the fellows.

Briefly, albeit having tried to make a brief post with this explanation, which wound up as the post made immediately before this one, of some 17 000 words, I ought to explain why I have made a weblog, noting that it is addressed to the XY folk, right up front in the weblog title.

Recently, for about five and a half years now, I have been more affable in my self towards the general Aboriginal community, and have been accepting a far higher level of comprehension condensing into my own life story, of what has been done to prevent Aboriginal Australian from sustaining social cohesion, and to prevent belief in Aboriginal culture.

I have come in close contact with solidly grounded information about what abuse is being inflicted in the prisons, and how vulnerable Aboriginal men have been to imprisonment.

In the following statement however, the facts apply to all men in Australian prisons, regardless of skin colour or cultural affiliations.

I do not know personally, or know of, one single man who has been in an Australian prison whom was not brutally and repeatedly bashed and raped and caused to fear for his life.

The problem is systemic.

The solution must also become systematically imparted to the whole of the Australian public.

In late 1986 there was a television programme on four corners, presented by the late Andrew Ollie, called Out of Mind, Out of Sight, and which sparked the public concerns which enabled to Royal Commission into Black Deaths in Custody. The recommendations of that Royal Commission are still not being implimented, and the few gains then made by men in prisons, such as staged release programmes for long term inmates, have already been reeled back.

I know personally two of the men who were interveiwed in the programme, and both, as well as everybody else I speak to who knows the story, can unconditionally qualify that the situation today is worse than it was in 1988. Why?

What can be done?

But more importantly we need to know How it ever could have become that bad?

The reason I am approaching the XY folk, both contributors and readers, is because the matter strikes to the heart of what prevents self decent gender relations within the mainstream Australian community.

When the ultimate sanction for men who abuse women, is to be sent into a situation in which they will be likely to be more brutally treated than they ever treated a woman, what chance to we stand of correcting our country's gender inequalities?

The following post was one made earlier this evening, of an essay written over the past two days, (which has a neat break seven tenths of the way in, marked by a couple of poems), in which I reveal the total complexity of my own comprehension of the depth of the social problem. The essay is just a story really, but a real life story, about my own experiences, and what qualifies me to be making the assertions which I am making. Previous to that, the post placed here yesterday, is the longer of the two works, and is an essay about the nature of ritualised abuse and recovery from ritualised abuse. Both are not easy to read.

Both, and the poems, like any and all of my writing in weblogs, are copyright protected, to a.c.n. 123212671 pty ltd, an Aboriginal owned and controlled company.

You might or might not know who I am, but my approach to XY is establised in the premise that at least some of you will have clear memories of me. Have a look at my photos and the intro at the url http://doyouknowme.wordpress.com/

Thanks for taking the time to consider my discourse in the field of gender and racial politics and sociology. You will notice that my approach is not only from wide out in the left field, but also from within a very definitively, but not tangential, understanding of the religious concepts which are often, still today, driving many of the major players in world politics.

There is a reason for this weblog

Today I made a google search, looking for an academic with specialisation in a field which much of my writing navigates. Although my own writing is less overtly similar to the basic foundation of their work, what came up in the search is the XYonline website. Despite not being obviously similar in topics of interest, from my point of veiw, within an Aboriginal perspective, as a woman who is concerned to ensure that women's business is well maintained, it is crucial for men's business to also be well maintained, to enable that my own field of interest is viable.


Normally, I guess I am knowable as just another Canberra single mother, who probably always seemed like a bit of an incredible story, because of my general tolerance for the muck of our social fabric, which may well prove to be an actual intolerance in the end of things.


There are three things which have happened to me in my life, but which I seem to always be sustaining a sort of incredible, or improbable, and perhaps even phantom, or unbelievable, quality.


These things are:


When 18 years old, I was caught in a mountainslide while bushwalking in New Zealand, and because of the state of my health at the time (I had a prolapsed perineum between age 3 and age 33), and also because of the content of my thoughts at the time, the longer term result is to have caused a mild post traumatic stress type response to any danger in my physiological processes, (if you know about PTSD spectrum illnesses, you might know that developing one normally is also associated with a childhood trauma, and a relevant sequence of occurances happened when I was three, that is not being acknolwedged by my family, yet was neither their own fault, but quite accidental in general) ;


When 19 years old, I attended a Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal Corroboree for reinstating abidance to tradition Kinship in every region of Australian and among all persons of any Aboriginal ancestry, and I am within a set of very serious obligations ever since then, in 1988;


The year before my prolapse recovered, I read a book, called Beelzebub's Tales To His Grandson, which was written for the express purpose of unravelling subconscious adherence to the mainstream of western European dominated cultures.


(I do not advise anybody reading Beelzebub's Tales To His Grandson without concurrently having at least one other set of cultural beliefs available, and can name that the better known book by the same author, George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff, called Meetings With Remarkable Men, is written to the purpose of providing story cycles to ground interpersonal relations within, after reading Beelzebub's Tales To His Grandson. Though Meetings With Remarkable Men, is often read without that need in place, it can be perceived as a far more valuable and valid book, after first reading the other, which is turgid, complex, and difficult-ly boring.)

Since a few of you reading may be familiar with members of the Canberra Gurdjieff Society, I have to impart an additional fact in the matter. However, that fact follows in the next paragraph, which is a long and boring paragraph, not concerning those whom are not already in some knowledge of the Gurdjieff literature. Perhaps the only interest, for those whom are not already involved with the work of Gurdjieff's social and cultural inheritance, is to note how far that literature sways the mode in which our sentences and paragraphs reveal a different thought structure, which is transmitted through that literature. Most of that work requires a real commitment to basic human self decency, to read; and is enabled by a simple curiosity about why those whom have read that literature, find it almost impossible not to express basic human self decency. That is, not matter what the underlying motivations and inclinations have been. My point is simply that the impact upon the subconscious mind, is undenyable, yet undetectable without finding oneself willing to become subjected to that influence. A difficult dicotomy for any reader to embark into.

I read Beelzebub’s Tales To His Grandson entirely independently of any of the groups it is normally read among; yet now entirely without knowledge of the work of those groups. There are two sets of international infrastructure in which the Gurdjieff literature is used for teaching esoteric science of religious worth. The Canberra Gurdjieff Society is aligned with one of those international infrastructures, but in my own contact with them, the sequence by which information was given to me, was in accordance with the practise of the other of the two known formulas of using Gurdjieff’s allegorical teaching material. Two members of the Canberra groups, one of whom described his own interest in that work to me, as an interest in “Gurdjieff-ian psychology”, informed me, close to Easter of 1999, that a secondary group to one of their major work groups, had been formed to undertake an experiment, and that the experiment ought to have happened during the last half of 1998. I was told apologetically on both occasions, and left with a wonder about whether the experiment was being conducted on my own psychological processes. It was, I can categorically confirm, and I can confirm, that because they had already given me to read, a book called “In Search of the Miraculous” by P.D. Ouspensky, but did not factor that into their experiment, (it is a book which imparts knowledge of such experiments), they misinterpreted their data and fucked up rather badly. However, given that it is not only the individuals who I know, that need to accept culpability, but rather is a whole system of intellectual organisation involving Gurdjieff Societies worldwide, and all the connections between the Gurdjieff based esoteric religious work, and Islam (Gurdjieff’s own teachers were Muslim and that is well documented in historic record), the totality of responsibility cannot be blamed upon any one individual. However, it seems to be that it was upon individual basis, that certain persons who really know me, and whom I had previously thought better of, had a dream about me, in which they dreamed that I became a child rapist, but rather than decide that the dream must be a fabrication and falsification of reality, they decided to presume that they could not escape its effect, (escaping the effect of any dream, even the most demanding and inescapable, is as simple as realising that the effect of dreaming impossible scenarios, is that the part of the central nervous system causal to that dream, has to die:- which is why drug use tends to cause brain damage), and then they set about dealing with myself through patterns of behaviour which actively caused the situation to arise, in which that dream manifests. Fortunately, I had enough nous about me, to get to the bottom of why a whole array of people suddenly turned against me socially, and have today validated myself among those Muslims in the middle east who managed the Dreamtime of the Gurdjieff literature. Please do not imagine that any dream of any person who could seem to be harming a child, need ever come real, but rather, believe with me, in my own experience of the real world, as the real explanation for such dreams, because in my world, not one of my children is raped. (I would like to be able to say that from this moment forth, no child is raped ever again, however, you are not likely to believe that, due to the precautions we implant in our minds, through our memories of past atrocities: Yet there is the point to make, that belief in the value of the experiences of those whom have been abused, and whom have been able to recover, is not the same as work to ensure that the same abuse never happens again; that work to safeguard our future, also needs belief in the possibility of being permanently enabled to prevent child abuse.) While in that other world, in which no credibility was left me, I will hate into the binds of the high heaven that my foes sought to attain, their imagination that my children could have been forced to suffer what no human being could ever suffer; because high up in the heavens, that imagination can be proven to have caused much very reproachable behaviour, and will be judged accordingly. Meanwhile, nobody ought to feel too guilty about imagining that I might have been the worst sort of person imaginable, by comparison to how much guilt must be accepted, through the Canberra Gurdjieff Society, for having presupposed that my sons would have been likely to cover up such crimes.


However, that you the reader, and I the writer, may know a few such persons in common, is quite irrelevant, now, to the total story.

Apart from the three slightly unusual, but character forming, experiences I have described, of being caught in a natural disaster while inhabiting a predisposition to let the nature of geological and climate strength, cause greater fear than for most persons, of having been acculturated within a traditionally oriented Aboriginal context, while living among mainstream Australians, and having read a bit of an unusual sort of a book, I might be just more or less like any other person who is 39 turning 40 soon, and who grew up in a nice white middle class suburb of Canberra. That is, except for the fact that my ancestors intermarried with Aborigines, and even though it was too long ago for my own immediate family to be eligible for any major claims against the Australian nation state, in respect of how all Aborigines were wards of the state between 1901 and 1967, and too long ago for the evidence to be clearly within the formal records of our history, (although perhaps that is where the debt exists, in having needed to deny cultural antiquity only so as to be able to raise children in relative safety), the fact is that a significant number of other Aboriginal Australians have identified myself as showing all the biological signs our race. Skin colour is really neither here nor there, but normally most races are darker in hot dry climates, and wouldn’t most ordinary white Australians prefer to be able to dry our darker in the sunshine? However many urban Aborigines use a definition of being black, which is defined by specific cultural beliefs, in which, if a person is lacking of, it tends to happen to them, that the way their skin shows its pigmentation, (no matter how much or little pigmentation there is) has the face of being blacker than the hands and feet may belie. I don’t usually tell about this, or show myself up as a person with a blacker culture than the mainstream of Australian society, but now I am.

I belong more properly than the peers who I grew up with ever knew me, within Aboriginal contexts. Not because I chose this passage through life, or because it was too hard for me to live by mainstream society’s rules and codes of conduct, or because I am too thick to believe in my own best interests; but because who I am, and what my social values are, shows me to be a person whom holds considerably more social wherewithal in most Aboriginal contexts, by contrast to most non-Aboriginal contexts.

Let me give you some examples, but first I would like to inform you about why I am making this weblog, so specifically addressed to the XY organisation, its experts, and its readership. I have been in a set of relationships over the past five years, with Aboriginal men who have been brutally raped and bashed repeatedly in the Australian prison system, and I am making a plea of sorts, that more men in the mainstream of Australian life, will take it upon their consciousness to recognise the full social detriment being caused through what is being allowed in the prisons.

Last night, I had a dream with Dr. Michael Flood in it. Congratulations are owing you Michael for your PhD. I noticed Michael being interviewed by an ABC television programme as an expert specialist recently, and felt really proud about the set of peers I have. Michael might not have realised who I am yet though, but he will realise when I let him know that I first knew who he was, as the super cool grammar boyfriend of Margo Wood, and later just as somebody with whom I had many closer peers in common, in particular one of his partners was in the same housing co-operative as I am, (was rather), and also I have been previously a close friend of a woman who prefers to establish her reputation in rivalry with Michael’s. So now, having been reminded of Michael by a dream, it became appropriate for me to do a google search on his name, within the Aboriginal paradigm of belief in what is likely to be socially effective communication. “Hi Michael, I just googled you”, I could have started with, but I doubt we ever really knew one another well enough for that to go far.

The long and the short of it, is that I am developing a very long term perspective around the necessity for women to work in compliment to the work which men engage in to constantly amend and redress the social definitions of masculinity.

My particular angle on the subject matter, is as a woman who would rather be a wife than a girlfriend, and who comprehends marriage very much more soundly within an Aboriginal traditionally oriented paradigm, but whom is not married, and yet has three sons. This fact alone, of being a mother to sons, and not yet having a daughter, places me in a very unusually male biased perspective. But it is also worth noting that I have no valuable experiences to be considered of a normal bonding with my own mother. Perhaps it is best to just relegate that information to a basket of my mother having been in a mild post natal depression after my birth, since the full story is too long winded to tell without risking portraying my mother in a more negative light than it is necessary for anybody to know of her. I have the capacity to be far more brief in defining the difficulty through Aboriginal contexts, by saying only that my mother mistook me for a dog when I am a kangaroo. There is a whole psychology summarised in that statement, but the essential fact is that there was a mistake, and no malicious intent.

Actually, I am a very feminine girly sort of a girl, who likes blokes to be blokes. So the story I need to tell, is in fact a story of how much it hurts females when men are not being awarded their rightful social place. I am a bit like being a failed feminist, except that I am all for having separate women’s business and men’s business, have excellent and adept skills at how to avoid being sexually violated, and believe strongly in the right of women to the education which a woman will be able to find herself positively socially engaged through. I have a very precise consciousness about how men and women have different “Dreaming” in the Aboriginal sense of the word. Let me try to define my understanding in words here: a woman’s feelings and capacity to forgive belong to before now, while the imagery she dreams in when her dreams are healthy, comes from after now; but a man’s dreamtime imagery in healthy dreams, belongs before now, while his feelings, and his capacity to forgive, are causal to our shared future. This statement I have just made, is alike to being a principal of religious belief in the study of para-psychology, that is just ordinarily comprehended by most significant Aboriginal elders, as the way of sustaining a healthy mind.

There are two interwoven stories which I have a real need to communicate, more or less immediately, to those men who work in the realm of understanding the processes by which men recover their sexual health after sexual violations. These are stories which I have been working to impart my knowledge of among the Aboriginal community, and have now come to a junction at which I know that in every effort I am making to provide the information which many Aboriginal men are needing and I have, (from a few Aboriginal men), about the rapes happening in prisons, is not able to be imparted further among the Aboriginal community, without attractive unnecessary and unwarranted negative police attention upon the men whom I communicate with. For this reason, I am going to state openly that I believe all white Australian men have an obligation to the Aboriginal community to begin to bear in mind some of the stories of what has been occurring. The other aspect of the total story, is about what has been caused in my own life, which is a burden my own sons are bearing with much too young, yet not much more than are many younger Aboriginal boys, and that it has been caused as a consequence of myself coming into the knowledge which I am holding, about how all men, not just the Aboriginal men, but all men, are being raped in Australian prisons. Ultimately this has to be made into two stories, one about motherhood, and another about having male partners and friends, because there are facts that need to be kept entirely distinct from each other. In telling the basic story here, however, it will be necessary for me to mention the bare bones of the details of how my motherhood has been harmed and implicated wrongly, by my liaisons with Aboriginal men. I believe that what I have been experiencing is not singular, but is the collective experience of most Aboriginal women and girls in certain age groups, and is also the collective experience of a minority of non-Aboriginal Australians.

From here, if you want me to cut to the chase, perhaps I might advise you that the next post in the weblog, contains a draft essay I wrote earlier this year, and have added to only slightly subsequently, which is about recovery from ritualised abuse. But the whole will read better if you let it be read within my real story. I do try to make it brief.

During the Kevin ’07 election campaign, and up until Christmas day 2007, I had the sort of relationship which is called a ‘temporary marriage’, among traditional Aborigines, with a man who holds native title at Fraser Island. In most Aboriginal dialects of English, a husband is distinguished from a boyfriend, not by a certificate and legislative obligations, but by discreet differences in the reality of what amounts to the culmination of intimate friendship. My male friend is a non-drinker, but had been a drunk in the past, and was not in any recovery programme when we met, and unusually for Aboriginal men in his age group, has never been in prison, but had worked teaching literacy in the prisons, and never escaped being as equitably bashed and raped as any inmate might be, by prison wardens. However, as his own brother is a prison warden, and he would not have had any social support to do so, the situation of the abuse he was subject to has never been taken through due process according to the mainstream cultural paradigm which institutes the prison system. This is a man who has previously won a good strong court case against the Ku Klux Klan, and who did accept it as his own culpability when a younger Aboriginal female took him to court for sexual violation of her, while driving her home to her mother. There is no reasonable explanation on the surface of the story, for how it could have happened that he had been bashed and raped in his workplace, and said nothing to anybody with any authority in the employing body.

Now let me reel this story back somewhat, to 2002, when it first happened to me, that I became unable to avoid a sexual relationship with one of the Aboriginal men who has served a prison sentence. First it was the assertion that nothing could be done to prevent an intimate situation arising, and thereafter an apology was offered alongside an astute compliment, and the reality of the situation was not too bad at all, and wound up with me being given a blood way bonding among Wiradjuri people. (‘Blood way’ relations are different from ‘skin way’, and may or may not be by ‘birth way’, of those relations who are named blood relations as opposed to in-laws in the mainstream society. In Aboriginal contexts everybody who is real, and worth wanting to bother with communicating to, [after all there are a few too many Quinkin and Junjary getting about these days as flesh and blood], has to be made a relation in one way or another, by being incorporated into the local Kinship structures, which are always, even in big cities, always, determined by geology and geography. A skin way relation means that they have a named skin bond among Aboriginal Kinship, a blood way relation means that the level of reciprocal obligation is more formidable, because there is some level of fusion of ownership of responsibility for certain features in the dreaming, [eg if you catch an STD off somebody then you’re getting into a blood way bond, but not all sexual relationships bear blood way bonding, because it depends on the anticipated duration of obligation, acknowledgeable through having reciprocal dreaming experiences]. Birth way is bound to be sustained permanently as blood way, but if you muck up too badly you might lose your skin, and your rights to food in certain areas, but will still be held in a blood bond to repay debt.) Next, the story was meant to wait for the real husband who I had been betrothed to in the dreamtime, to show up, and soon enough he did; but before he arrived, another Aboriginal man was put up to coercing me within a far higher degree of threats than at first could be made, and with a threat of violence violation, and the threat of having that story lied about by other persons nearby, it was more sensible to go along with letting myself be raped, than to let any violent violation of my body take place. As it was, that was the situation in which I had the hardest time dodging being anally raped, and ultimately, a few other people who were around in the vicinity, but not the actual rapist, who felt somewhat obliged towards me not to by then, (Aboriginal men just don’t let themselves take pleasure so ignorantly as non-Aboriginal men do, and because the internal mental associations with any experience of arousal, are always accepted upon the self of the individual, and nobody tries to blame anybody else for their own behaviour, but especially men towards women and mothers towards children; and so the violation if it happens, is more acknowledged, and often acknowledged as too frequent an occurrence, even if the word rape only applies to one minute out of a few hours of relations between a man and his partner:- ), actually set up a far worse series of consequences than I could possibly have imagined, and which were all in connection with maintaining a drug supply free from specialised policing attention, and in which they exhibited a form of deviance knowable in many Aboriginal communities, as an Ant story. They were afraid that because I could avoid being anally raped, I might tell everybody about what I was witnessing. In fact, I had no intention of telling anybody, but what they subsequently did to me, has forced me to have to begin to tell. Thus proving the Aboriginal paradigm of dealing with criminals by letting them prove themselves to be what they really are, and thereafter sanctioning them formidably.

The bottom of that particular story, is that a few too many other people knew, ahead of myself, that an Aboriginal husband was being lined up for me, and those people in the Aboriginal community who only know criminal contexts for dealing with white skin people, tried to have their say in who it should be and why, and they wound up preventing the young man who first asked me to marry him in 2003, from being able to manage the story of marriage to a person with white skin. But deep down underneath that basic story, is that the people who prevented the marriage, were relying upon drug sources promising them protection from corrupt AFP, who were nervous about nice white girls witnessing certain things, and because the potential husband in question, had already been in and out of adult prisons since the age of seventeen, he was already too psychologically abused to be able to contemplate the idea of living safely with myself among my white peers. In prisons, the Aboriginal men who are not openly acting out hatred of white skin people, as though they are just as badly racist as the white neo-Nazis who rape them, are more likely to be more brutally bashed and raped, and then probably also set up as though a rock spider. No wonder there are culprit who were nervous, whoever they really were, since I do not want to myself be accusing the police, but here merely report the story as I was then told it, at the tent embassy.

Now, given that it happened to me, that the second person who I mention here as having raped me, (here let the definition of the word “rape” remain hazy, as it often is in any Aboriginal context, because of the general level of impossibility of translating Aboriginal language word meaning into English words, and therefore an indiscriminate use of the word “rape” was begun in the translation of dreamtime mythology, and then in a reaction against that, there was a period of more denial than is normally true in Aboriginal culture; but also because I do not blame the men who behaved towards me most apologetically at all times), was somewhat of an expert, with a psychology qualification awarded to him while in a prison, after having basically grown up in men’s prisons, but an expert in the knowledge of how to abuse a person so as to force them into any old life story, and whatever trajectory of lifestyle, other criminals might suppose will be beneficial for their committing of crimes, and an expert in conditioning anybody it exposing behaviour signs as though being mentally ill; first understand that in the whole story I am lucky to still be alive, and then understand that it is not without risk that I am telling my story. That rapist was conscious of his behaviour being intended to cause that because I am a white girl, it is alright to impose upon me the story of having my children removed from me. The people around him reported the situation to my family, and to many other Aborigines, as though it had been a far more serious violation of Kinship laws regulating behaviour, than I could have just gone along with; as though I had been with a person named like a birth brother in kinship: and it is on that basis, that subsequently my family and many of my peers were refusing to support me in a family court case against my children’s father, who just happens to know folk who buy drugs from the same sources as the tent embassy was buying drugs from.

Now put this together with the information about me, that I was in a state of having a prolapsed perineum, from infancy until the age of 33, only six months before arriving at the tent embassy in 2002; and that during those many years, (as well as having three of the best sons a mother will ever have), I had no way of recognising the way in which I was being socially qualified in the memories and dreams of people who were not outside of the consciousness of how dreams and culture interrelate, as I had long been. Then put that piece of information together with another set of facts I will tell here. In the Aboriginal community, after a female has already been connected intimately, in a blood bonding way, with any man who has served a prison sentence, and only when also she is not immediately in the care of any children, it is normally regarded that she is who men who have been in prison, might look to for intimate company. The idea is, that the germs from STDs, and the bad blood bonded nightmares which always accompany STDs, ought not be spread around too far, and so no Aboriginal man in his right mind, who has ever been in a prison, normally gets together with any female who has never already been with a man who has been in a prison, unless that man is already betrothed to her through the ways of ancestral spirits. Now, it was the situation in my case, that everybody else was anticipating the arrival of a young man, who had been known to be a very powerful dreamer from inside the prisons, even at a young age. At 23 years old when we met, he already had many grey hairs, and proved himself to me, to be physically the most compatible marriage partner I could have ever imagined having. The only man who did not, quite by accident, ever inflict pain on me. That he and I were prevented from marrying, and were only boyfriend and girlfriend very briefly, and too briefly for either to realise that neither of us had been in a real way (real way means according to real Kinship laws) marriage before, is a story that belongs with other facts that I do not ever want to have to repeat all of, about the depravity of the Australian prison system, and how that level of depravity is being conducted outside of prison contexts by people who are conditioned inside prison, to know no other way of social interaction. Basically, as it was known that my ‘husband to be’, (who I then had no knowledge of yet), was likely to be somebody who had been in a prison, (it turned out that at 23 he had already been in every prison in NSW), that therefore it would be expected of me to accommodate the story of prisons, and therefore, all the other men who have been in a prison, and usually avoid women so as not to impose fear from the prisons upon women, were just too delighted to meet me, and as equitably embarrassed. It was the second of those two men, who also bashed and sodomised by force, the young man who was betrothed to me, until he was no longer conscious. Apparently so as to force him to play the game according to the ideals of the non-Aboriginal organised crime, that has all the muscle over Aboriginal organised crime. (believe it or not, groups engaged in organised crime, tend to almost always have a quasi-religious outlook on accountability, and in which Aboriginal communities become involved more receptively than into any social context which acknowledges no such context, because Aboriginal culture had no secular world view) None of these men bore me any ill intent, and although I will not say the same of every person involved in those events, I will also tell you all, not to measure the value of the political arguments that some criminals are hiding behind, by the face of the crimes I am mentioning, but rather, when including acknowledgement of criminality among political processes, also acknowledge the criminality inherent in the prison system, and in Terra Nullius.

The fact that the most recent man I have been with, was never a prison inmate, shows that I have stepped up in the world considerably, during the five years since. I have also had a relationship with a man who acknowledges he is a murderer, and was assigned the task of killing me, but fell in love instead. Also an old Torres Strait drunk living on the street who has given me total sanctity in the streets of Brisbane; the father of one of the wives in Yothu Yindi; and a man with an acknowledged career in the performing Arts. All those men had been in prison. Additionally, in the same period, I have been raped by two non-Aboriginal men, both of whom I had very narrow escapes from being sodomised by, and was mainly enabled to escape that fate because of the efforts of the Aboriginal men who have been in prison, to make sure that they would be framed up as who to do that job. Both those men were heavily involved in organised crime, and specialists in the forms of abuse which are perpetrated through ritualised behaviour, for the purpose of causing a multiple personality disorder, or dissociative identity disorder, in anybody who is so abused, and who is refusing to go along with the story they are being forced into. I have had to play it very stupid. My game plan is paying off, and I now have been given a social obligation within traditional northern territory kinship, not to have any further interactions with those men who have been in prison. Within Aboriginal culture this might not have become possible if I had not proven that I have found enough information of value from within the social contexts of criminality, to prove that I had my wits about me, and accepted for responsibility for myself, whilst enduring those contexts. I have made some life long friends in fact.

But this writing here is not intended as any sort of self defence, and it is rather intended to open up the whole can of worms about how, the abuse in the most depraved parts of society, is influencing everybody, and in particular, has been preventative to normal attention to the needs of children.

I have to insist that if my children had been with me I would not have been in any story of any risk to my own safety, and where the first risk took place, at the tent embassy, the children’s safety was assured. There are also a few instances in which a few Aboriginal persons were assuming that I might have been letting my children be removed from me, as many younger Aboriginal mothers have let their children be with older family members for a time, while involved with men who were in prison; but those who imagined that my story was the same as that sort, or my decision making based in the same reasoning, were being mislead by the interim court orders, and by social conditioning in general here in Queensland, about the reality of how safe my children are with Declan Grimes and Kate Angus. This level of insistence is the most basic possible, and is something which I could not have even contemplated ever needing to be making. In the real world my experience is that many people around me, from the Volkswagen mechanic, to the homeopathic doctor, had all commented about my children’s behaviour improving immediately that their father and I permanently split up in mid-1999. The court case story is by no means simple, and the complexity of it not warranted to mention now in a public context, but the whole situation is not going to just go away until I obtain justice for my children.

Recently my youngest son had a birthday, and as per usual, I made some special party food. However, as has been the case for the past five years now, I am not currently allowed any unsupervised access with my son, was prevented from being able to organise to see my son on his birthday, and the food will be possibly the best compost the worms have had for a while. But I still go through that ritual, just in case. Just in case there is any way for my children to receive the worth of my work. Just to prove to myself that I am always capable of being what my children need me to be.

In National Sorry Week, in 2003, my Nanna died, I miscarried a deformed foetus, which resulted from the rape at the tent embassy, and my children’s father, informed me that he could call the police to stop me ever seeing my children again. I thought it was absurd of him to say that, and at the first interim court hearing, surely they would laugh him out of court. But here, in the state of Queensland, where I am not known, and the kid’s Dad’s alcoholism and violence are being covered up by the other partner he had concurrent with me for many years, the allegations against me, that I had happened to suddenly become so far gone crazy that I might not even notice myself raping a child, were taken seriously. Experiencing this has been so very affronting, that I can barely tolerate any notion of compassion for any association with Brisbane City, where I have been living now for every week except three recently, since October 2003, because my children are here, nearby, even when I cannot see them, and also the other party in the family court case, filed in court before me, and so the hearings are all in the state of Queensland. I hate everybody most days while living in this situation, especially Queenslanders, and am normally too angry to want to bother speaking. There have been two distinct occasions in which the level of cortisol hormone in my brain, actually caused a mild speech dysfunction, comparable with that described in diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I show symptoms of whenever there are any loud noises nearby alike to (at the same pitch as) the noises of the mountain slide in New Zealand. Obviously also I could easily have many of the symptoms of the harder to tolerate condition of a dissociative identity disorder, except that, fortunately, I never forget. I have an exceptionally good memory for details of what is happening in the world around me all day, and am also normally a good big picture thinker. So while I am able to be forced to “dissociate”, the experience causes what are named “somatic” hallucinations, and only if also extremely exhausted, and which I can always identify as not real.

Somatic hallucinations are not unusual for Aborigines, and we have cultural methods of accommodating them without it causing any social or emotional disruption. Usually it is only a sign that a behavioural modification might be required, and also some more specialised exorcism type work, of the sort which most Aborigines are self conducting about our own life story, in every of our animal, vegetable, and mineral, identifications. That way, every somatic hallucination of all behaviour which is not law abiding, is attenuated into the shape of other natural life forms, and thereby holds far less fear and social disruption. I will not right here, fully qualify this statement, by defining the whole breadth of what could potentially be defined as a somatic hallucination, (eg, one person imagined the other was about to kiss them, and so moved towards engaging in that behaviour, but the other had no such delusion about what was possible in the next moment in their mind right then: if there is any motivating force in making the movement towards the kiss, like a compulsion, it is normally the same neuro-receptors being engaged, as with a full blown somatic hallucination, in which the real world never diminishes, but we feel bodily sensations from another time and place, or another person’s body.), because I seem to remember having said a fair bit more about that in the essay that follows this post. I should here also say, that I may well take large offence at being assumed in my work, my words, and what I am communicating, if it happens that I am portrayed any further as a bit of an idiot in respect of the sexual propriety of my gender. I am in fact, formidably intolerant of men who cannot accurately communicate with me about potentially intimate relations, and I believe that intolerance is fully enabled by having a greater degree of compassion for the situations in which men are not really sure of themselves, and not sure about female responses.

If you might know him, and were wondering, of course it is my ex-partner, the Irishman, who is the other party in the family court case. I will say, if needing to be on the offensive about this whole story, that I have a large field of complaints against the Australian Nation State, in respect of the conduct of this particular family law case. Not in the least of which are the systematic underfunding of my own case, and also the children’s representative, and the failure to date for any recompense for a typographic error in a court order having delayed making the legal argument upon which the case still rests today. The case is still open. It was filed in July 2003, and then next hearing is July 25th 2008, after which trial dates will be set. By July 24th I need to have filed all the material for trial, but I have never yet, in the State of Queensland, had any funding for a lawyer. Does the Australian Government really believe that my children are best off with a violent drunk and the woman who protects him from the consequences of his actions, than we me? Even some of their neighbours have complained to me about the yelling that goes on in their house. Yet here in Queensland I have been systematically prevented from having any sustainable social credibility. Perhaps it was because I had begun to tell people about having indigenous ancestry? That is one of the basis upon which Declan defines me as insane, and he has also mentioned in court that I sent a note to the children about when I met the young man who offered to marry me, as though I was over exposing the children by mentioning I had a marriage proposal, and Declan also confuses him with who raped me, within the body of his affidavit material, and asserted that the relationship would be exposing the children to abuse. I struggle every day to contemplate why the court could have believed him, and I know that if I heard this story about somebody I did not know, I might have trouble myself believing it could be real. But I wake up every day to the same situation.

What I have learned, gradually, as the social situations I was finding myself in here in Queensland, began to pan out, is that Brisbane seems to have a surprisingly high proportion of single mothers who lose their children through the family court, into situations where the children are no better off, if not worse off. And surprisingly enough, most of the mothers involved, are finding themselves being branded as potentially having sexually violated a child, or exposing a child to risks of that. Most have had intimate relationships with men who have been in prison at one time or another, or, with men who have bought drugs from such persons. One mother I know was a heroin addict and prostitute, and her child was from a pregnancy forced onto her (sets of false directions to abortion clinics are apparently normal practise among the pimping industry, because women who have had a baby, and who are also in fear for the safety of their baby, tend to have tighter involuntary contractions, and so make more valuable prostitutes), forcibly removed, so her boyfriend could access cheaper heroin. I asked a Canberra woman I know up here, who is known to the women who worked at WISE, about this information and she has confirmed it, that having children makes a prostitute more valuable, and that organised crime seek out women who are already mothers to force into prostitution. Mother prostitutes are sold as available to be blamed by actual child abusers, and are a sought after commodity by those who engage in making child pornography. Between organised crime, and corruption, and ignorant idiots using the political cause of wanting a sorry for stolen generations as an excuse to get their drugs cheaper, the consensus which developed was that if I just disappeared there would be trouble (nice middle class family and all that: including children who will grow up and take their own legal action one day perhaps), and because I cannot be forced into a drug addict's story, and seem to be coping with sanity while being branded with insanity (not to mention the psychological abuse of being often misinformed about what everybody else believes in or might be real: but the folk who do that are too used to lying to drug users and really not that good at their lies), that a prostitute’s story would be the best one for me. I guess it’s just their bad luck then, that they set me up into getting the whole story out of the black men (and one or two white: for seven men I have been willingly in five years, two rapists, one of whom a white man, two out of the total group where non-Aboriginal, but four of were Wirrin, or Kediatchure men: magic men in Aboriginal culture, who have really high levels of knowledge of human psychology; and not that the white rapist did not spill quite a lot of beans, eg: his own father a member of the Plymouth Brethren in UK, alike to those Exclusive Brethren who Howard was gallivanting with right after making the Intervention legislation; within which the King in Hades might be affiliated if it is the Greek mythology you know best), and I never took no money in exchange for sex yet, but just am clever about playing my story, even whose Biblical character is often mistaken for a prostitute: The story of the kangaroo who digs a hole in the river bed too deep, but so all the kangaroo family will drink, just too deep to swim, but then the dogs come and chase everybody away, and the roo jumps into its own hole, and down the bottom turns into the Rainbow Serpent: later a black headed snake and a rock wallaby appear higher up the river valley. You bet I was locked in as soon as I travelled back to my home town with the right story in my head, took a wrong turn up the back roads short cut, and the whole story came true, down to the last details of what species belong where and in what sequence in the story. I own the Dreamtime of the red bellied black snake who can overcome other poisonous snakes, and also the rare rock Wallabies found in the New England region, near my birth place. (A Rainbow Serpent at the bottom of the river is an allegory for a man who has a prolapsed perineum, and when it comes out is because he reassessed all the evidence and reattained good enough self knowledge, and his muscles re-strengthen with more formidable knowledge of everybody else’s errors: that is why Rainbow Serpents are feared by other Aborigines: because it is more possible in its story to learn what all the crap is, and still talk straight. The story is not normally told in its feminine version, but known more famously through other cultures, in which the tradition is not so protective of women, and the female role thus not good enough for Aboriginal culture in her obedience to law. In other cultures the same story is Kunti in Mahabarata, and Innana in the Sumerian stories, Persephone obviously in the Greek, and also Ta’mar in the Bible is accurate to my own songline, more so than Rebekah, whose story travels a different Rainbow Serpent ley line. Crocodile stories have the same capacity as the Rainbow Serpent, to travel through all the other song lines, which is why shamanism correlates with crocodile mythology: but read the parts about Kinship in the longer post to understand who is who and why, and that there is a real science to this knowledge.)

Meanwhile, in the prisons, men believe a number of very strange things. For example, that getting out of prison demands of an ex-inmate, that they need frame up another criminal to go into prison in their wake, and that if they do not, then they will be put back into prison. They tend to avoid causing for known child rapists to become imprisoned, since that could mean that their mates who are still inside prison, might have to put their private anatomy inside the anus of a child rapist: and as it happens, accidentally doing that, is what most prison inmates fear more than many other things. It seems to be why the “rock spiders” are isolated in fact. But then, as I have already said, it is not only who has been convicted of offences against children, or who has been found out to have been abusing children, who are being branded as rock spiders. Anybody who happens to have found themselves in a social situation which could be confused with child rape, is potentially being so branded. For example, the young man I was betrothed to, was too afraid to go into prison as a married adult, even though he had a prison sentence yet to serve, for a drunken fight, (much like many which my children’s father got out of going to prison for), because if he could not continue to claim that he himself is still in mind like a child, then he might have risked being branded as a rock spider, because in the mission community where he grew up, children were beginning sexual activity too young, and when he was about thirteen he had penetrated a girl of about nine, as was socially normal for them there at the time, as much as it is totally abhorrent to everybody, even those who engaged in that behaviour as children. Worst, is that a part of the reasoning of the criminals who branded that potentiality, and who had wanted to get him back into prison after becoming married, was that because, even though he a tall fellow, his private gender specific anatomy, (no females are allowed to use the words for either male or female genitalia in traditional culture, but men can, and speak these words to wives, who learn meaning certain words from husbands rather than mothers: the effect is that Aboriginal words for most body parts sustain an integral quality of being always sacred and sanctified: not because mothers cannot sanctify, but because male speech sings the future, while female speech sings the past, and therefore it is understood that males sing the positive consequences, while females can only sing negative consequences), particularly small, and so criminals, locked up in prison for years on end, without normal social stimulus, and where every man every day fears being raped and murdered, imagined that it might be good for a child if not an anus. What has manifested only too obviously in my life story, is that the reason criminals prevented my marriage to that young man, was to prevent me from becoming able to have any social credibility in imparting these details of the depravities of what is happening in our society. Men like that young man, and now also myself, have been branded and set up, by organised crime, as the people upon whom other criminals, who own and work in brothels, or making and selling pornography, may be able to attribute all the sexual crimes which they are conducting. They know that they do not have evidence because there is none, but they hope that if they brand somebody with a specific anti-social identification for long enough, that we might become unable to escape the company of others in the same boat, and therefore actively fall into engaging in the actual crime. They were always wrong about imagining they could cause any parent to actually harm a child only by forcing the parent to have dreams of their children being harmed.

There is one part of Aboriginal culture, not always normally in place, but often, in which we are instructed to “go with the dream that wakes you up”. It just means that whatever dream you were having when you woke up in the morning, is likely to provide the most effective mental stimulus for maintaining your considerations throughout the day, because it has already been through the patterns of engaging recall memory. Yet criminals had taken that idea, and portrayed it to mean that if you have a dream of something then you have to do it, or else you have no culture and are insane; and then they impose their own behavioural values upon other persons, hoping to be able to cause other persons to have the dream of their criminality. There are criminals whom actively engage in trying to cause that any child who is vulnerable, could be forced to dream a dream of being who was always at fault for crimes committed against that same child. Criminals who know the psychological processes through which that could be forced to manifest, because it was forced upon themselves too young, and then in prisons they were forced to believe that their very survival depends upon being able to perpetrate abuse, rather than fall victim, and be labelled as a rock spider. Ultimately, becoming labelled as a rock spider, is in some situations, becoming the equivalent of an emotional sanctity from being forced into being a perpetrator of rape.

I think that this is plenty of information.

There are many worse details, but I am sure you are already getting the gist of the story.

Immediately, I expect that you might want some words from me about what I believe can be done to alleviate the general story.

My own immediate need, which is what I thought of in having a dream with Michael Flood in it this morning, was about his specialisation, and how he could potentially be able to give expert evidence in a court of law. What is possible I am wondering, rather than “will you please tell the court?”, since I do not know what frameworks are available to him, which adhere to the legal jurisdiction of provision of expert evidence.

At this point in the court case I have recently received information from the QLD state ombudsman that the expert evidence legal aid Queensland’s Children’s Representative had organised, and which reflected poorly upon my mental health by using the mental health examination of the other party in the case, and the material from the case against me, as the only available collateral evidence about my mental health, was always in fact, not compliant with what the court had ordered, due to having been underfunded.

However, more specifically, and totally distinct from the legal story as it is defined by legislation here a minute, I will be in need of learning where to point my oldest son to, in respect of learning how to avoid using pornography, since it seems that the reason Declan Grimes ever wanted to prevent me having the children, is because he wanted to impose upon my oldest son, to lie about having witnessed Declan’s own use pornography, and in general being conscious of the behaviour in the bedroom between Declan and Kate Angus. My son is distressed by how he is being conditioned, as though everything about life will always be unpleasant except for the “wank mags” and “the drink”, as Declan deciphers his own world. My oldest son is who I am mentioning here, because he is taking it upon himself to chose to bond with Declan in respect of these things, and in a way that is actively preventing his younger brothers being so badly over exposed as he was at their age. Pointedly, the difficulty is that my sons are not being allowed any internal privacy of considering what their own needs might be, independently from what Declan and Kate want. Every time they so much as see me, even while being supervised, they are grilled over and over about the situation, as Declan and Kate seek for any evidence whatsoever to corroborate what they have told to the court. The court orders say they are not to denigrate me in front of my children, but already my children are all feeling guilty for having been forced to cover up the fact that Declan and Kate are denigrating me in front of them, and they are not speaking up in my defence. It is not me who is making the children feel guilty for not sticking up for me, and not telling everybody they know what the real story is, but it is Declan and Kate, who are blaming the children for ever saying they want to see me, and then also blaming them for denying me or feigning ignorance of their feelings of missing me. It is how the abuse in families with extreme substance abuse patterns plays out, and it has been like that for my children now for five years, with me doing everything possibly at my disposal to prove the case in my favour, that the children need to be in my own care at least half of the time, and ought never have been expected to tolerate needing me to be supervised. The message the children are receiving from the Nation State, is that a safe home and loving parent, is unlawful by comparison to abusive alcoholics.

If anybody would like to continue reading in this weblog, this post is seventeen thousand words in 27 pages in a word document,(in two sections separated by the poetry, the first is about seven thousand words) and the next post was 96 pages in a word document, with a tighter font. The next post relates much more to marrying an analysis of the mental illnesses being caused by ritualised abuse sponsored from within the prisons, which originates in an Aboriginal paradigm, with an analysis comprehensible to the modern psychology paradigm. Actually, what I am hoping for most of all, is that perhaps somebody like Dr Michael Flood, or any other concerned academic, who has the wherewithal about social contexts to be able to be making the right sort of reputations for themself, could expose the knowledge I have about what the nature of the problem is, perhaps to those psychologists and sociologists who will be able to undertake the necessary academic research to prove the point and advocate for real solutions being able to receive the necessary mainstream attention. It’s a hard call because of the value of the silence of the men who are being raped, and who do not want to expose any children out there in the general community, to what the danger is; but once there is evidence of children having already been unacceptably exposed to the indirect consequences of prison conditions, it is time to put the story out as dirty laundry. Seriously also, despite everything happening to my children, the fact that I have any information at all about what has been happening in the prisons is almost miraculous, since the men who have spoken to me, were hardly able to believe that they were not going to be further victimised for speaking. Therefore the value in this information must be qualified by how socially expensive it has been to validate it. However, since I am not an academic who has been doing field work, but am a single mother who was made unnecessarily a victim of circumstance, and especially since the detrimental effects have been harmful to my children’s developing psychology and emotional security, (as well as diet, educational achievement, etc etc), I have a real place from which to insist that other people, more appropriately qualified, will take up the work necessary when in knowledge of the abuse happening in the prisons.

Please read the larger essay, in the oldest post of this weblog. There is also another essay in the oldest post in the weblog at http://doyouknowme.wordpress.com/, where some of the political arguments are presented more precisely perhaps, though from a specific and unusual point of view. That essay can be complimented by also reading a recently published by Bruce Pascoe, called Convincing Ground: Learning to Love Your Country, published by Aboriginal Studies Press down in Canberra at AIATSIS. He tells the good parts of why to follow through with the argument I made in that essay.

I know that there are many people who, at this time, are working to focus everybody’s attention on the positive aspects of how we need to consider, (and advocate for) the indigenous community nationally, and that positive media attention has been hard fought for and won. However, what goes on behind a victory like that, has always been requiring for a few more Australians, rather than just “those poor blacks” to have to face the harsher realities of Australian social conditions. If only a few of us, who are able to face the story of what is going on in the prisons, and in ritualised abuse contexts generally, are able to face the harsh facts in a way that alleviates the fear in the black community, then that is what enables the black community to prove their real worth more effectively. The longer essay in this weblog tries to focus upon why an Aboriginal cultural paradigm can enable safety of mind and emotional survival, when other belief paradigms cannot.


Also, I made a poem today when I was thinking about writing this weblog post, before I put any other word to paper or keyboard:

Comprehension

The placid pattern
Of intelligent comprehension
My own witness
By seed implanted
Of Aboriginal intention
Cause the way we regard
All the worst happening to us
Be made accountable today
That in no future day
Need it again be this way
And so we watch and wait
Never taking the bait
Yet swallowing of
In knowledge of
Not yet having been
Able to end all of
What our own intelligent
Comprehensive intent
Knows to be
Less than life’s totality
Of real sustainability
As we all need society to be
Yet for now placid enough
By how we keep our hides tough


Bedridden
(the story motivated after overhearing a conversation
between two blokes in a Brisbane City street)

I have noticed today
Our Australian’s way
Often not too polite mate
But in the most mannerly of ways
Rarely can mention
By words well understood in connection
There was a bloke
Who used French instead
For what we name in English a bed
But I say
Those French words
Will have had their day
For they have gone too far for me today
So I will expose the lot
Of French play
As not what we need
For our own way today
Aren’t they all just posh snobs
About how well their own words
Splice their air without care
For whose
Thus I do not care either for their
While need we define
The next best neat festival time
Better than a Fete De La Musique
Yet no less the same rouse
Or the kind of style
A process of eating a meal by
What weirdos with French dreams
Might like to imagine about others needs
Those who own French hidden clues
About how to fit into real shoes
Way up high and out on such limb
That nobody could ever deny
What none might ever find
Yet that the linguists despair
For Indigenous Australians can disprove their
Worth in language analysis
Since between the transitive and intransitive
Are not words but love
And while so many Australians
Might use French words
Like many of all nations
We need not expect them to be
The only way polite and mannerly
Of words like the “be-day”
Not mine to spell its way
Yet find its method right
For protection from the unprotected lives
Of what prostitution defines
Is not only a French device
But of most of Asia alright
And nobody had no right
To blame one Australian mother each night
For instructing her child
To be careful to mind
The habit worthy of long lifetimes
Is upon what was blamed no mentionable claims
Upon the worth of interpretations
Of what might one day
For in the phrase
“Genital ablution”
Need never have been fey
Of some idiots delusions
Yet the words which played
Upon false illusions
Of references to all our private decisions
Are English words just too gruff
English these words of despair
For too many it takes to make all plain and fair
But what have we got if not
Our own local lingo
Of the Ekka’s window
The Gabba’s throw
But for Heaven’s sake
Who might really know
What is the word best heard
Not too rude to say
For that most personal place
Best let home camp
Cough up the decant
Upon what word might define
That we normally won’t say
In open play
For respect for the shyness
Of real dignity’s way
And want each of our own home
Place today
In every named way

Both poems, and this whole essay, along with that following, are copyright protected 2008, to a.c.n. 123212671 pty ltd an Aboriginal owned company.

The second is another poem made the day before, which covers a related topic, about the language we use in the bedroom. You might have noticed yourself that it is typically Australian, to be far more modest, if a little gruffly modest, about how we speak about our intimate relationships. More shy specifically also. This is a phenomenon which we did not get from the British, or any other immigrant group, and is not from American popular culture, but is very definitively an Aboriginal cultural phenomenon, of general modesty. Just like “tall poppy” “syndrome”, in which some folk think us Aussies are abnormally self-depreciating, while for us, all it means is that anybody is only as popular as their latest efforts proved worthy of being. Specifically about language and privacy, never be surprised to learn that even in the heart of every big Australian City, the Aboriginal language words for body parts are being retained. The privacy between a husband and a wife, and between a mother teaching her child to wash, are strongly resisting the violations of the invasion of the land, overtly by sustaining real language of ancestry. Thereby Aboriginal communities are sustaining an integrity and nobility about any acknowledgement of our physical body, in which the body is able to be asserted as sacred, and in which communication about intimacy is down to earth, matter of fact, and within restrained expression, far more concisely real in emotional experience.

You may be able to realise for yourselves also, that most of us white fellows with Aboriginal ancestors, (who tend to be attracted to one another in mainstream culture, and whom are often detectable by the combination of our ancestry having been here in Australia since before Federation, and also being, in general, more likely to be, shy, high achievers, heavy boned, and display a social intolerance for the unbelievable), who do not still retain original Aboriginal languages, we are also, nevertheless, usually reticent to use normal English language words with application to private body self description. The words of English for our genitals, and also the latin, and most Euro-centric languages, just sound too rude, by having been used to often in our hearing, as descriptions of violation. Part of the assault upon the ears is the description of violations, and another part is that when a word is often used within such a description, and it is a word belonging in a normally sanctified context, the word itself assumed the emotions of the violation. There are even those people from other cultural contexts, who validate this by assuming that every reference to specific body parts is necessarily also a reference to sin. What makes the body sustain its sanctity, is the fact of keeping up the full accountability of all the consequences of all its behaviour. Sustaining that level of accountability is an internally highly energy consuming task, and sort of just boring also, but will explain why many Aborigines often seem a bit vacuous to non-Aboriginal persons. Sustaining full accountability for oneself is a far harder task within mainstream culture, than within any Aboriginal context, and harder in Cities and towns, than in the bush also, despite it being normal and most effective to use the same mental processes and practises. For example, even here in a big City, if I see one crow alone, I can heed it as a warning about how my own behaviour might be immediately at risk of falling down, in the same way as I could in the bush. Cities have their cats and dogs and rodents and insects and birds, grasses and gardens, and all of are used by all Aborigines every day, within which to balance the mental experience of the world containing so much as one large City. Most of my writing focuses on the beneficial personal, interpersonal, and social values of our Aboriginal culture, with application to the ordinary daily life of all Australians, many of whom could be participating in more aspects of Aboriginal culture, in a way which is not theft of culture (that is a phenomenon belong to the world of the Arts and of anthropologists and linguists who wrote down their own immediate interpretive analysis of our way, and not for ordinary Australians to feel obligated not to enquire about real cultural values and how to be respectful and compliant with), but which can actually always manifest a further degree of cultural maintenance among Aboriginal communities also.

Somewhere here I guess that you could relate to what I am trying to say, in respect of the work of feminists, and men who have supported feminism, or who also realise that feminism is really only a dogma, that is as applicable to men as it is to women, (the variety of behaviour of different ‘feminists’ proves that it is not a culture or religion, and as an ideology it has no basis apart from obtaining the vote and equal wages for equal labour, yet when our labour is seldom equal, because of real biological difference, what meanings are left to the ideology, and so it is a dogma, and a useful one:- we could argue here about the wrongs of biological determinism, but frankly, I do not fancy the chances of survival of a race of children born by artificial implantation to men’s stomaches, having read research detailing a reduction in women’s capacity to give birth naturally, if they themselves were not born through a vagina, and besides, I’d be a crazed moron to deny that my white skin biology determines that I risk sunburn, not in spite of, but all the more because of, realising what a few various racial biological differences actually are to the internal experience), in that I sustain a real respect for any work being undertaken within consciousness of why we often need to find our feet in any new concept, and within certain functional tasks, by learning in gender isolated groups. Women learn about survival in dangerous social situations more effectively by isolating ourselves into women only groups, and a the heart of feminism, the practise of making certain knowledge explicit between women, before presenting men with a consolidated argument from many women in agreement, towards all men, is beneficial, and integral to most older cultures. Essentially feminists have always existed, and are not radical, neither wanton, nor bleeding hearts, but pragmatic.

However, in the final analysis of the material in this essay, (not the one in the older weblog post though), it needs to be directed to a male audience, because it is too distressing for mothers of younger children to have to accommodate. In many ways I have spent the past five years in a gender isolated story also. Having had only two house guests for any length of time, both of whom were Aboriginal women nearly destitute, by having been carrying a non-Aboriginal partner. Living in a stranger’s City, having been isolated from most of the Aboriginal community by the policing of me, (though I am knowable among), and without having any sound basis for engaging in my normal daily motherhood’s set of peers, like the canteen ladies and mothers of my children’s school friends, (that is not only because of the removal of my children but because Declan and Kate were not happy with just that, but set about to systematically deny me by spreading false rumours about me and my lifestyle, most particularly among the school teachers and families of my children’s school friends: which has proven to be one of the most insidious assaults upon my sons psychological development), it has happened to me that strongest female bonds I have made here, are with women who were also being forced into the same ill devised life story as I have been forced to swallow. It is the understanding integral to Aboriginality which enables me, because I know the efficacy of swallowing the interpersonal accountability of what is being presumed of me, without ever so much as taking a step in that direction. The total story is a tale in which, due to the open display of the assault upon cultural values of the federal government’s intervention into many remote Aboriginal communities, (communities where there are children who experience not having their fathers around for protection, because their fathers tend to want to run away from family life, after having been imprisoned and forced into the roles of rock spiders unless they become sodomy perpetrators as well as receiving sodomy by brutality, and thereby have become infected by the fears of other men, about what may or may not be a woman’s fault, and too many Aboriginal men are being left afraid that they only might want to hit a woman if they marry her, not because it would have been their natural inclination, but because of criminals in prisons assuming that to be already the case; and here I avoid writing the story of the worst being forced into men’s dreams by the prison system; but alcohol consumption is certainly also actively being promoted to Aboriginal men, as a solution in which to avoid further victimisation by organised crime and police), the matters which I am writing about must be evaluated, considered, and resolutions sought, by all groups of men, and not only the Aboriginal community.

Something a bit funny has been happening in the world around me, while writing this. I mentioned that there was a recent birthday, and that I baked for it, not knowing if the food was going to be able to be received. Well, the full story of that fact, is that originally, I had a tentative arrangement to meet with my oldest son, who is no longer covered by the family court in a court order, but whom is afraid of the social stigma from his father being unbearable, if he were to move into my house. He is also genuinely protective of his younger brothers, and experiences his father’s house as conveniently located to his friends, his school, (now in his final year, unless he wants to do it again within an adult education pedagogy), and his work place of the local KFC, whereas my house is about an hour and a half away on public transport, and since I have no car, and cannot pick him up when he could use the space to get his homework done in, (as he is banned from use of the computer at his father’s house, apparently for showing pornography to his younger brothers when he was about twelve, but about which my own two younger sons have no knowledge, yet their younger step brother has probably entered a room in which he once had his step mothers internet connection being used up with his curiosity about his father’s sexuality:- the father who, preferring a mirror and a wank mag to a real woman, though is partial to an anus, left me for his current partner, as well as to let enabling of his alcoholism, whereas, I would not tolerate any alcohol, and the accompanying violence and mood swings, in my own home, having thereby caused that he engaged in binge drinking while with me, this all being that same father of my children who now tells the courts that he no longer has a problem with alcohol because he no longer binges, but rather drinks moderately at home, which the children report as at least two long necks of homebrew every evening, that being before their bedtime; and these facts having been dismissed by the court as most likely insanity on my part since I have expressed belief in Aboriginal culture outside of the court context . . . is it any wonder I rant a bit like a blackfella these days!), and he is now a teenager with teenagers sort of social concerns, and who his father gave far too much freedom to as an eleven year old when first living here in Brisbane, the fact is that it is often difficult to arrange a time to see him. It does not help that his father and step mother will not accept phone calls from me and only let me speak to my sons for a half an hour window once a week, (but even then not if the organised time slot fell on Christmas Day, another fact being ignored by the court), however he and I both carry a mobile, and I speak to him as often as is affordable, and so we had a tentative arrangement, to meet on Saturday, when he was to introduce me to his girlfriend. He is quite proud about her, and once was trying to work out whether it would be suitable to introduce me to her family as his mother, but then became stuck in not wanting to lie about who he was living with. He very clearly did not want her parents to realise what his own home life is like at his father’s house. We had arranged to speak again on the Friday, about the details of the Saturday.

But by Friday, the whole potential for any arrangement was falling through, despite me having decided to cook something for my son to take over to his brothers. It seems to be that what happened, is that my son came under the firing line about where he was planning to be on the weekend, and why, and although he most often just disappears out of his father and step mother’s radar on his weekends, if he can manage it, when it comes to having prior arrangements, he always tries to avoid lying. So when pressured about why he and his girlfriend might want to be at the Southbank Parklands by a certain time, he said that it was because I might be there, and then said that I had asked to meet his girlfriend, and which his father and step mother asserted that they had a right to meet her first, and thereby that is what happened instead, while I fed roo sausages to the birds.

The unreasonable pressure on my son, is not just to hold up a social framework of lies about his mother, but also to over-expose his own innermost self to his father and step mother, in a way that not even I, as a mother, could possibly condone interfering in my son’s perceptions of what the truth is. My anger is insurmountable, in this having been already happening now for five years, and nobody feeling able to afford the assistance I require to prove my case to the court. The full set of social pressures on my family include ASIO surveillance of my parents without due cause, but which is difficult to prove. I am infuriated about the social conditions in which my son, now at sixteen, potentially faces the same hurdles, and I notice that there is undue attention being paid to him, from the more right wing elements of undercover policing.

There a few assertions I have made here, which I will not even try to validate, and might not anticipate you being able to believe in, but the reality is that I cannot afford to detail how I know what I know. The total social context is inclusive of a few recent conversations with Aborigines in Alice Springs, about the overtly delusional basis upon which many Aboriginal people, but particularly the paler skin ones among us, whose educational capacity is larger, are being policed. It’s all Aliens and rocket ships and escaping global warming by interplanetary travel, among a few of the undercover police who have been a bit too affable with Aboriginal women, and who are known to be selling drugs to Aborigines, and on the building sites in the Cities. However, since those seem to be the least harmful of the police delusions, I ought to inform any police reading, that they are not who is leaking information, but just the more entertaining spectrum of modern policing. (Remember here that the book Beelzebub’s Tales To His Grandson, which was written for the purpose of enabling recovery of the esoteric knowledge of Islam, off the Masonic inheritors of the results of the Crusades, is not unfamiliar territory to either police or Aborigines, and is an allegory about Angels travelling between the stars in a space craft, or “facility”, under the guise of Alien interventionists in Earthling matters. The point of the book not being to extract worth out from Masonic contexts, but to re-orient Masonic contexts with the original basis of their foundations, in which specific aspects of Islamic prophesy about indigenous peoples, features prominently, as does the person of King Solomon, who is reputed to be a man who will have a very small personal gender defining body part, about which many Aborigines have had a real fear about why the AFP is involved in medical examinations of children, for ascertaining if the child has been raped, happening in remote Aboriginal communities, a fear now alleviated somewhat by the ALP election victory, but realistic in the context of what was done to prevent one such man from marriage, through a series of brutality supporting assertions that such a physical phenomenon is either to rape children with, or for sodomy: and in the experience of which, the young man in question, actively sought out who was sponsoring the falsifications of the story, by going along with it, and happened to meet a High Court Judge in a Canberra Brothel. . . . these are known facts.) (but no wonder there are presumptions that my sanity is easy enough to deny, since somebody has to bust the myths and expose the truth, because it is a truth which could enable more criminals to take sexual advantage of more Australian children unless more Australians face it) (the irony I am here editing in a day later, is that today's news grab is of the $438 million dollar probe landing at Mars, while Aboriginal prostitutes consolidate reports that the military interest in having bases in the Central Australian Desert, is all wrapped up in police and military misconceptions around the nature of what an allegory is, what makes any fact believable to any specific person, and why one person can be in fully founded evidence, while another witnesses the same evidence in ignorance: with the military and police surveillance in central Australia being constantly fully being linked with the stories from Beelzebub's Tales To His Grandson, a book in which there is a telescope on Mars, managed by Angels, and real Martians concerned about why Maritan health is being negatively influenced by Earthlings.)

(if anybody else has a more bizarre life than mine, please let me in on it, because I struggle myself to believe me at times, but once experienced, life just is as it is, despite all the extraordinary and random disclosures being made by various distressed undercover police operatives, to various sympathetic Aboriginal females here and there: the best stories are from the considerable number of blackfellows who hitched lifts with their surveillance team, who were bored of the idea of having to wait undercover in the bushes on a deserted highway; once you hear more than one of those stories, you can't help but notice that something is clearly wrong with the world)

Now, before I finish this tale, with its bizarre ending about what was happening while I was writing the whole document here, I ought to provide a caution also. My caution is this: we Aborigines, or most of us anyway, have a biological propensity to be able to sustain a far more realistic perspective within our dreams, than have most people in most other races. Do not assume you will be able to discern reality accurately among your own dreams until you are fully one hundred percent certain of your own self knowledge. “Know Thyself” is not a command of every religious culture for no reason. The game of life is built within the relationships between those of us who do always sustain perfect self knowledge. Self knowledge, is nothing less than certain memory of every moment of your own mental processes. There is no more worthy aim, than to focus yourself upon always remembering what is arriving into your mind. Until you can always remember yourself, you will not be able to discern whether what is in your mind is being received of the environment and community in general, or is an active product of your own interpretation of your own experience. That is a fact of the esoteric sciences which govern psychology, and those who imagine different, can only imagine themselves into a greater level of fear and culpability than would otherwise be their own. Test this hypothesis if you need to, but do not rely upon me being able to forgive you in your testing of what I know, because I know, trust, and acknowledge, the ancient worth of human knowledge, normally stored by religion allegory, rather than modern academia. I happen to be also worth reading for my ability to define religious beliefs and religious psychology and methodology, within the secular framework of modern scientific dogma, but within accepting science as religious in basis. Faith being a concept of belief only in what is real, therefore always verifiable scientifically, and the modern scientific world having begun, and still being sustained today, through the religious methodology of Islam, in how all our Dreams are managed. (bear in mind the further warning that it is not auspicious in the modern mainstream world, to relate these ideas to how readily the essence of many religions have parallel comprehension, or the fact of Islam having preceded the British in Australia by over four hundred years, despite the worth of Christian Churches being able to be traced into significantly related facts, and not, as many Australian drug related criminal acts, tend to portray, that the Church’s wealth is obtained by criminal means: it all depends upon what you believe about money that talks and bullshit that walks) (at the heart of every good story is the truth of who is holding the good in the story at its bottom line, being normally who are also portrayed as criminals, because of how criminals like to portray themselves as able to control all our stories, as though criminality is legitimised if the criminals control society; but when who that is holding good, is men who have been wrongly locked up, and brutalised to the extent of being unable to protect women well enough to protect children, the real insiders story, has to be put out: the process is a process well known in Aboriginal cultural contexts, in which sometimes, the outside stories can move back inside, and other stories from the inside of the Dreamtime, become the outside story; a process which Tibetean Buddhists are describing as currently happeing to the Tibetean people also, of beginning to Dream in stories of which the oldest records are around six hundred years)

An aspect of Aboriginal culture, which is still today very strong, and which relates both to my roo barbeque, and to the management of Dreams, is the knowledge of what foods each clan owns, and which of those foods are able to be eaten. It is difficult to find the right words to define my comprehension, because in different parts of Australia, the Aboriginal English term “own food”, has been translated differently with different application. So in most contexts I cannot eat my “own food”, in another context it is the only food I am allowed to eat, depending upon how the concept of ownership was historically translated.

Going by my own Dreamtimes story, as told in this essay, is my own food, a Kangaroo, or a Snake? Let me tell you. If I eat a Kangaroo or Wallaby, I know I will turn into one, and it will be safe to, because the story of how those animals live, (similarly cows in other cultures, and my name is a Hebrew name for a heifer, that is a direct translation into the Warlbiri skin name I have of nungarrayi) is appropriate for me, and able to be acknowledged by me. Yet the idea of eating snake me is too repulsive, and if I were to, I might not be able to sustain myself knowledge so well. Snake meat would make me go up into my head too badly with ideas not originally my own. I also belong to the Emu clan, and have been with a man from a White Crane clan, and been given the gift of a Pelican feather, by the man whose traditional Dreaming he owns, is of being the crow who feels sorry for the swans in the story of why Australia has black swans; and over the years my digestion has become unable to digest chicken meat without it passing straight through me, and the same for Emus and any bird meat. My sons are good for eating Roo too, but mainly because their father and I were not in a straight way proper marriage according to Aboriginal Kinship.

In the Aboriginal world view, all species are divided up into being regulated by the same Kinship patterns as people are. When we have a relationship with a specific species, flora or fauna, or the land it lives at, we are either owners or managers of it, depending upon how our dreaming interacts with the species and place. Are we active Dreamers in relation to the natural phenomenon, or passive Dreamers. The ideal is that only what we are passive through is that which we let ourselves become turned into. The principal is inimical with what underlies the science of the school of “homeopathy”, which is based in a principal of ancient Greek philosophy, that like cures like. The likeness is to realise the experience of being turned into an animal, but only through forgiving those whom we are receptive to, so as to cause our nature to be fully an embodiment of wanting at all times to avoid behaving alike to an animal in the knowledge and stories we inhabit which we are able to be active through. Best not to eat the food most like yourself, because it is likely to make your mind more active to its non-human characteristics, within an understanding that if we were all behaving fully human at all times, we would all already have found ourselves in everlasting life with Jesus. The belief, in Aboriginal cultural contexts, that no death happens except by bad influences of evil doers infesting our dreams, is totally compatible with the ideal of Jesus proving everlasting life through being nailed to a cross and resurrected. It is not a failure to recognise science, but rather a more fully comprehensive cognising of the science of human psychology and how cause and effect relate in the human subconscious. If we eat the food which is alike to us, knowable through the science of mitochondrial DNA transmitted through mothers only, (Aboriginal culture sustains knowledge of matri-clan descent simultaneous with patri-clan descent, and often the stronger the dominance of patri-clan allegiance, the more formidable the inner knowledge of matri-clan bonding), then we risk enabling that our conscious mind regulates itself within awareness of some aspect of our dreams which are normally kept in the subconscious, because we are not yet enabled to accept the full responsibility for certain knowledge, not until we are older and those dreams occur more naturally, as in the examples of old people wanting to recount their earlier life experiences, so as to assess what aspects of their behaviour were causal then to their bodies now failing. So if we eat foods of plants or animals which contained a similar pattern in regulation of cellular respiration, we need to sustain all the more self discipline, so as to avoid having dreams of how we may be causal to our own death.

Now that I have told you a little about my own knowledge of regulating how I am dreaming, and also been gradually imparting a set of facts about Aboriginal culture, in which perhaps you can conceive of us as generally sustaining a higher degree of physical sensitivity to the content of our Dreams, perhaps I have made it safer to say what else this story is about. So remembering that, if I tell you that I dreamed about something, and it proves that I was wrong, then my body hurts, as the body generally can hurt also if it dreams reality and reality is being denied. Remembering also that I am not yet married properly, and so in my Dreams there is nothing protecting me from being blamed by almost anybody who wanted to imagine that I have been wrong, yet have become old enough and wise enough to inhabit the esoteric knowledge of Dreaming of an elder, in which it is my decided preference to want to experience immediate discomfort as reason to engage a higher level of self discipline. This decision to account for myself within the culpability of a person who has more control over their own dreams, yet while I have rarely any control at all, but am most often while sleeping, entirely at the mercy, in my mental processes, of any one or another of all the men who I have been with, (usually there is space between to have other dreams also, which tend to be those my memory engages with), actually enables me to combat the errors, misjudgements, and wrongful imagination, of men who have raped me, about what my real belief and behaviour is. It is the psychological pattern in which rape victims are best enabled to escape from falling into repeating the behaviour which made them vulnerable in the first place. It is a psychological process which is most often best understood by darker skin persons, because they are more likely to sustain more memory of the shape of the imagery of dreams.

I have had a significant number of dreams, in the past five years, in which I am able to categorically state that those dreams would not have been possible had it not been for acts being perpetrated in brothels, in which I am personally being blamed for the behaviour of those who are engaging in often unlawful, and always dishonourable, (sinful if you can relate to that word, or just disease causing if not), sexual behaviour. Some of the dreams I have had were with people who have raped me, or met me, or been another sexual partner of somebody who had once been my own sexual partner. This process I am describing is the process by which STDs are caused among those who are not sustaining accurate consciousness of what has been done to them. I do not know how many persons removed I am from the scenes in the, often known as Japanese owned (but there my knowledge is not full, and I know that I am disinclined to blame Japanese people for every causal factor to those dreams, even when they appear in the dreams, or it that especially when their appearance manifests), brothels at the Gold Coast, where men with huge penises pay high prices for females with vaginas that are too small to accept penetration without experiencing pain; but I know that the source could be either the Plymouth Brethren’s rapist son, who had an overt Yakuza surveillance team, and had been an English Rebel bikie; or, one of the Aboriginal men who has been raped in prison by a serious neo-Nazi who supports such institutions, through letting himself be blamed for what goes on inside brothels etc, by in turn blaming any newer inmate in the prisons who is not already prepared to tackle the psychological, emotional, and physical trauma. Normally there are also money laundering scams which connect these dreams, but I am no laundress. (Not of the money of folk I share no blood with, at any rate, and even among family, never by criminal means or method; but I do get how to do money laundry, in a way that normally only criminals, and corrupt officials know about, because, of course, if very many law abiding citizens knew certain facts, that whole game would have ended already by now.)

Now while I have been engaged in such terrible nightmares as I am here describing, and have been simultaneously communicating what I know to those Aboriginal men who work the Kediatchure, and can alter all the Dreams of Aborigines and others, into patterns in which such crimes will eventually no longer be enabled; it just happened, that Declan Grimes and Kate Angus, noticed that they could obtain what seemed to be a personal advantage for themselves out of the story also, by placing a further delay into the court action, and imagining that Kate is myself, and that I am as bad as any of the criminal behaviours I have described, while they are alone together engaged in intimate behaviour. What they are doing is no less than what many people do, of imagining being the rich and famous while having sex. But why do you think they were wanting to imagine being me, while also having named me as the worst of people, and knowing that I have become virtually unemployable. In fact, Declan has also, more recently than he first started up the legal action, while most of my credibility as a mother, seems to be being carried today by Kate Angus, but without comparable behaviour. I wonder what my children really are eating when I cook with them in mind? If I cook with my children in mind, will Kate and Declan be able to buy more healthy food? All these things are constantly on my mind.

It’s not all bad, in fact, there are situations in which people I know seem to have been engaging in sexual activity, while imagining to be the rich and famous, but while also blaming me for what they are up to: in which I have had a bizarre string of Dreams in which the rich and famous were faulting myself, when I am without fault, for imagining being them when having sex. These are most sustaining dreams, in which I seem to have discovered how to sustain my knowledge of the world at an equivalent level to those people who have very high financial incomes. Although the method is not to be recommended because of all the totality of associated social consequences. I will not presume to know really what the rich and famous are getting up to behind closed doors, but only that there are too many ordinary people wanting to be more like them, and that the media is mainly who needs to be held accountable. But obviously so are who might have presumed to be able to fault myself with their own behaviour. I feel as though I have been set into a story of being the bait for the beast of modern capitalism, who is recognisable in dreams as the Beast of the Earth, as described in various religious contexts. But in real life, the culprits were mostly just poor ignorant buggers who thought they had it easy getting the better of me; who I never lied to, but was also not quite so open with as had been presumed of me.

Now deep down at the bottom of the murk of all that I am relating here, it happened during the same time period as this essay is being composed within, that my sixteen year old son’s new girlfriend, met his father and stepmother, who then, in their next sexual interaction, imagined being my son and his girlfriend, while simultaneously blaming me for their behaviour, unaware all the while of my witness being deadly.

I will be venturing forth today to investigate the aftermath in my son’s own life story, and potentially organising to meet with his girlfriends parents, not to tell all these facts to, but to navigate a way for my son to prove his own innocence. While Declan Grimes might be just an old Irish drunkard with actual brain damage from binge drinking, just like the many older Irish drunks he was friends with when I met him on the streets of London, begging for changed alongside the young people organising the picket of the South African Embassy in Trafalgar Square. . . ; I can validate that he will always have been steering this situation away from whatever it was that he was imagining, might have caused that any child might have been abused to the degree that he was abused throughout his childhood. My achievement as a mother, and his as a father, is to have both managed to protect our children to a far higher degree than our own families were able to protect us. Yet Declan is unlikely to be able to reassure my sons new girlfriend’s family that either Zimma, or myself, are worth knowing.

Here today, living in the state which had legislation (Queensland Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Act) that the apartheid act of South Africa was based upon, still disallowed from hesitating with intent to loiter, and knowing that public drunkenness is more likely to be an arrest-able offence if you are Aboriginal than if you are not; I wonder often about that connection to Azania. I learned my own politics originally through Women Against Racism which formed out of a women’s support group for the picket of the South African Embassy in Canberra. The last of the land rights flags I had been given during 1988, I placed upon the picket of the South African Embassy in London, and was standing under it there the day Nelson Mandela was released. My oldest son is named after an African man his father met at the picket of the South African Embassy. (from Ghana, though the name is Biblical and also in Mahabarata) I wonder why it is then, that my son’s first girlfriend, is a white South African, and find already a sound reasoning , while perhaps others ponder about the superstitious nature of correlating meaning in just any old coincidence. (remember that, those which we happen to notice instantly as meaningful, or make an effort to look for meaning within, is a predetermined fact conditioned into us by cultural values, and not an absolute determining notion about definitions of sanity: the black cat crossed the road in front of me once, and then . . . . . . what corresponds with what, and why, and is the real coincidence that you are reading this now, or what you happen to be surrounded by as you read it? But if you follow that logic well enough, you may find yourself needing to be constantly giving away knowledge, so as to let your body be refilled with improved information interpretation and analysis of how to understand the world: the tighter kept is the foundational unchanging and unchallenged belief set, the more fluid and open, yet also sane, will be the totality of the knowledge we hold, and the variety of interpretations we can comprehend of that knowledge.)

So I will tell another brief story here now. In 2002, I changed my surname to Copas, from Marker. Copas is my mother’s mother’s mother’s maiden name, after her father’s father, who was convicted for forgery, though some say it was theft of a clock, sent to NSW, where his pardon is in the State Archives. He built a building which is still standing today in the Hunter Valley, at a place called Merton on the Denman, which is the only private village every built in Australia, and no longer much more than a paddock.

My Great Grandmother, who was born in the same place as I, and who was still living when I became born, Emily Copas, had a sister called Lucy Copas, who outlived her considerably. Lucy was married with a young daughter, and her and her husband were set to emigrate to South Africa. She and her daughter went on ahead of her husband however, and when they arrived, there was a telegram telling them of a fatal accident that had killed great aunty Lucy’s first husband. She remarried, and her second husband, was an Englishman who moved to South African prospecting for diamonds. One day, he was exploring a valley with his mate, when the valley forked. He took the right fork and his mate took the left. His mate was a Mr DeBeers, while he and my Great Aunty Lucy, lived happily ever after, both her and her husband living on to over one hundred.

So this story is dedicated to blessing all of my sons with living in healthy happy lives until over one hundred. A fact of statistical averages says that needs a good marriage, and here in Australia, most of the good marriages I know of, are conditioned by belief in Aboriginal Kinship. Please read more about Kinship, either from the essay in the older post in this weblog, or through anthropologists data, ( but my recent, experimental posts into the Big Brother forums, with the username “curaezipirid”, made since I decided it was about time this year to find out about what Big Brother is all about, and noticed the opening among questioning die hard BB fans, for providing information about Aboriginal culture, in respect of interest in the participation of indigenous Australians in the television programme, and internet backdrop, were just a bit too explicitly, if only accidentally, proving the whole scenario of the BB TV show at fault, as real Kinship knowledge tends only to be able to show up the defeat of imposing the psychology of over-adventurous lust; and so sadly with my posts there having caused a whole thread asking about Aboriginal culture to be deleted, I cannot yet direct interest into such a mass popular context, but the way for that future is in reality well paved.) You can just go ahead and ask any Aboriginal person whom you feel comfortable with asking, (somebody who feels like you own maternal uncle is best), about what just any bloody white fellow is able to contribute towards the patterns of social adherence to Kinship, and you can do it within acknowledging that you recognise Kinship tradition, in its real worth, is able to reduce sexual violations in every community. At the bottom line the story is a simple as needing to know: a) the story of your place of conception and birth; b) the story of your father's genealogy which defines what food you can eat for best health, and how you will work in relationships; c) the story of your mother's genealogy which defines what sort of close familial relationship bonds you will be able to form in the interests of your best health and sustaining longevity; d) the patterns of marriage generally in your genealogy, which will define many aspects of what is probably for you, and need to be learned so as to draw upon the best of. I really hope that one day TV programmes like Big Brother will be able to be used for teaching real Kinship adherence, which is not truly any less entertaining, and far more insightful, than the media provoking youth to fuck up with one another for money.

Thanks for reading this, and please refer other readers to it, only as you know other readers will be able to read it with real compassion and social responsibility. Tar