Washing Up

The Olympics

In Tomato

Was

Too Easy

An essay written over the dishes and televised Olympics, on Tuesday 12th August, while thinking about the former Australian conservative government's "intervention" legislation, which gives government radical powers to intervene in indigenous affairs. For readers not yet in knowledge of that legislation, now only one year old, it is so extreme to have bypassed Australia's promise in the United Nations, to abide within Racial Discrimination Treaties, and it repealed a portion of the Australian Racial Discrimination ACT. However, my own contemplation of these social conditions, as depicted in this essay, exhibits a rather larger picture of the fears for humanity which the situation is stimulating. This essay is in an experimental construction, without use of paragraphs in the main, so far. In that it becomes more compatible with indigenous Australian grammar, which enables sentences to be infinitely long. The whole essay is 11713 words. I ought to caution every Indian reader of my use of English, that throughout Australia, in every tribe and clan and family, even those who have no overt affiliations with the modern Aboriginal identifications, Aboriginal structures of communication, normally place confessional statements at the start, and how we learn to trust one another within that fact, is through each proving ourselves independently able to end on a perfect note. We do not normally communicate reality to those whose weaknesses we have not already fully assessed our own obligations to prevent of.

Was thinking today, (now as I type, it was yesterday I was thinking), over the dishes in my sink, and this is something how my thoughts went:

That intervention is worrying me. Most days I worry about it, among other things. And there is something else, about invasions, worrying me.

That invasion longer ago, over in America, what went on in that story, I wonder, since I heard that when Christopher Columbus set off to find India, he was looking to invest Spanish profits, in which ever indigenous peoples will be who proves the part of the prophesies of Islam, what the Masonic Temples are built upon. Some prophesy about curing the world of child abuse, that has a connected part about economic protection, but I don’t really know any more than just that. Well now, I get thinking, he certainly did not find India, did he? and what is more, the Muslims from Arabia, who did find India, kept on moving further east. Apparently even the Chinese reckon that it could be about their economy, the story of receiving the economic protection from God, and I am washing up wondering about all the English speaking nations police, expecting that the Chinese Muslim’s warnings about not taking children to the Olympics this year, is a terrorist threat. It’s probably why there’s not enough bums on seats in the Olympic stadium, so while newscorp have us all convinced that the Chinese lied about ticket sales, really the Chinese are only trying to prove that they won. However, it can be dangerous to say such things, and if newscorp said so, the Chinese might all just say not, since they are so very contrary in how they teach real lessons. And on my own part, I reckon that it is best to leave that sort of larger scale political commentary to the men, and not even wonder too much about far away places, at least not until our own local politics are sorted out. But there I am, still washing up, and thinking again, about far away America now, and how the Masonic Temples ruled the roost, was by having convinced a few of the Native Americans to buy into their game of trying to cheat other folk out of fulfilling a prophesy, or is that trying to cheat God, except that it is impossible to cheat God, and so everything will work out safe in the end, or so the prophesy goes. But there is something about how they convinced a few of the Native Americans to run with the Chris Columbus yarn, which is bugging me. They are were not usually able to convince those Native Americans who still identify as Native Americans, not normally that is, although the reparations for “residential school’s post traumatic stress disorder”, court cases that were cleared through the United Nations, might have been built upon an assumption of Native American fulfilment of the prophesies. Yet, who would begrudge their being given money owing, regardless of why it might have been given. Normally the Afro-Americans, whose ancestors are often as likely to be Native to America as to Africa, also do not believe that they can just steer the world’s butt, into the story of some unknown female in their own community, being who got all the blame, since Muslims reckon it’s a girl who does their plot. So who does? Who were those Native Americans who swallowed the wrong pill, and why? Those white anglo-saxon protestant types, who happen to have indigenous ancestry, more or less like myself, but American, how were they convinced to take a bum steer on religious revelation? How were they convinced of their own victory being in Chris Columbus being able to make it just any old indigenous people he happened to find who will take the worst there is into their own? And slowly, I realise that those who were convinced that it could be their own mob who do it, are probably only the ant people of any culture, and are possibly only who were always more likely to buy into the invaders games. Then I wonder how many Australians know about these prophesies, and recall that Islam’s worth is in the fact that Revelations tells it also the same. Muslims just have it all a bit more fleshed out with the details of what to anticipate on route to witnessing the full story being played out. Maybe by the time we really are witnessing Revelations, we will all already have read the right texts of Islam, and so will know what we are witnessing, but maybe not. It is surprising how well minded Muslim’s use of the internet is, as they place Islam’s patterns into the electro-magnetic fields caused by electricity consumption, religiously, assiduously, and intentionally defeating all criminal use of electric technology. And my wondering, while washing my dishes, is landing me the story of Christopher Columbus and the egg, and a wonder about how many Australians know that story. It goes like this. When Chris Columbus came home from Spain, with an example of a Native American individual and a few tomatoes and potatoes, to prove that he had the goods, (the plants he chose to grow for economic wealth are why spaghetti bolognaise uses tomatoes, but on Monday 11th, Australian channel seven news announced that Australians dislike eating our own native fruit, such as the bush tomato, that is, those white Aussies made strangers to their own story, who were offered it as a choice next to an American tomato, but nobody mentioned how Australian tomato farmers are who have genetically modified American tomatoes to become more drought resistant), and then another of Chris Columbus’s countrymen, who was jealous of his newfound favour with the King of Spain, complained, and objected to his proclaiming his self worth, by saying that anybody could have gone to America and found a real human being. So Christopher Columbus arranged a competition for the King’s favour. Whoever could balance a boiled egg on its end would win. All the courtiers tried, and all of them failed, and then Christopher Columbus had his turn, and he smashed the end of the boiled egg flat. The others objected, of course, and claimed he had cheated, as he had of course, but he pointed out that he didn’t ever say that not smashing the shell was a rule of the game, and that really, it was only because he thought of it first that he won; and the King of Spain accepted. Always in my own mind, when I learned that story, at about six years old, I was sure he was cheating, because if not cheating on his own self proclaimed rules about winning, surely he had cheated the birds out of the shape of an egg. However, over my dishes, my mind leapt more quickly than I am writing, and came to the speedy recognition of the methods of invaders being always inclusive of seeking the compliance of the corrupt among those whom they invade. Of course, the Native Americans, who are true to their own culture still today, or true to Christianity, or those Afro-American Muslims true enough to Islam, can all recognise that they are not immediately about to prove what Mohammed spoke; and yet the sub-prime mortgage loans were potentially enabled on the basis of international investment in the probability of American achievement in Islam. That is, up to and inclusive of George Bush JR, the contemporary inheritor of what the Spanish, and English, and French, put the Native Americans up to believing about their own story, whose very own family company investment in sub-prime mortgages, made the loss. All those nice Rosicrucian styled dreams that are received by Aborigines as though of reparations, all, potentially, in a very bum steer. For not only did the Spanish, English, and French, all invest in an American fulfilment of prophesy, but they also invested in America becoming able to make a Bill of Rights to prove that their invaders were not who did it to them, since the prophesy also establishes something or other about what will be happening within legislation. Something or other in which my Muslim friends were enabled to believe in my own dreaming, only after the intervention legislation came into existence. Which of course has to make us all wonder whose bums had been getting steered wrong in the first place. As well as why the English brought the skilled labourers among convicts to our land. Men whose way out of prison had been through their admission into affiliation with English Masonic craft lodges as apprentices. I am thinking, while washing, and of all the methods of the invaders. I notice how the Europeans who owned fleets of ships, all invested both in an American outcome, and one at the Eastern edges of where the Empire of Islam once stretched, hedging their bets both ways, and I know that whichever way they invested first, when they invested in the opposite also, the show who they owe, for the fact of the matter is, that the whole of the process of capitalist accumulation, born out of European Crusader’s raiding of Islam, when they also tried to capitalise out of the opposite outcome, they gave that outcome away. Whatever their outcome really had been, it tells in the prophesy of the cruelty of ever asserting that it could be the outcome of any other person, and so if it might seem around me, to be only a white stranger’s outcome, best not be jealous of its reality, since I know better than to have forced my own story onto anybody, if ever anybody could be figuring this story I am writing out. Of how they utilise whomever among those they invade, who they can successfully corrupt. They use the criminals among us, whoever we are. After all, it is rare that any community, clan, tribe, or family, could claim to have no criminality in their midst. And I consider the following aspects of the modern history of Australia, while I am washing. When Whitlam was sacked, the loan that was focussed upon, had been set up by an ordinary Aussie crime gang, of white fellows, who happen to believe that their ancestors include Aborigines. I know because I met a couple of them, and somebody’s girlfriend spilt the beans by slipping me a word. Ironically, they had been dealing with Muslim organised crime in Indonesia, connected to that in Malaysia, where, we have no actual evidence yet of CIA involvement, do we? Our only real evidence of the CIA’s interests locates itself at Pine Gap, and therein we can only wonder what exchanges are taking place inside the dreaming, that are not open. That is despite a rumour that the reason the USA invaded Vietnam, was to learn from the South Vietnamese, about the nature of the nasty types of money tricks, by which the height of the Empire of Islam had been originally assaulted. There are some money tricks, which are, apparently so evil, that not even Chinese or Vietnamese, or most East Asians, will touch it, and yet today many Australians like the taste of Viet-namese Mint. It is not a pretty picture I paint alright, but one of a giant tomato fight, such as they now have real traditions of in Spain. Here is another modern example of how they invade. The modern Japanese companies, who are buying up our land, and farming beef, and paying Aboriginal pastoral workers in R.M. Williams boots to ride horses that have no saddles and stirrups, and paying in their second hand four wheel drives they couldn’t get that much in the city for, and in the price of pub meals with beer, for an occasional steer gone missing and a tap out of the keg in back of the truck, just in case an alcoholic will provide the Japanese with reason to be blaming us all again; those modern Japanese pastoral companies, I think about, surmising that Beethoven must not have known of this sort of pastoral work when he composed his pastoral symphony (that’s one of the tunes in the cartoon movie Fantasia), well, those Japanese companies, they are not really managing to rip us all off that bad, without also relying upon the Japanese, (and Korean) organised crime that operates from certain places in Australia, nearby where this story happens to be happening, I hear, that there is a hot trade among the prostitutes, who accept the clients, who arrive after a trip through South East Asian small rent boy’s stories about large rich tourists who pay to touch, a trade in the information about who are the mother’s whose children have been removed, and so whom could be blamed for what the prostitutes are excusing their clients of. As though if the police and the government bureaucrats say one child needs to be apart from their mother, that their mother is guilty of the whole sex slavery trade, which had been an accusation made against her, before that trade ever obtains any evidence of it being possible to blame her. In turn, the organised crime that sponsors such happenings in brothels, that I received verification of through a heroin addicted prostitute, born New Zealand in the Chinese year of the fire horse, who befriended me to cross reference our stories, of bizarrely extreme excuses for the worst imaginable facts, having been forced upon the weakest in every community, are groups of criminals who are also needing to rely upon Australian organised crime. And I know in my heart, without needing to wonder, that this is why so many of our young Aboriginal men, have steered themselves into bad situations, from where a clever enough wife can only learn to let these facts become drawn out into the open, since if kept inside, only a child could suffer. And as I type my calf muscle is cramping up now for telling, and then it released as I tell that it cramped. And I think/thought/am thinking, while washing the dishes, yesterday now, if we apply the principle belief, that the invasion of one culture, by another culture, always depends upon a set of individuals in the invaded culture, who want to escape the constraints of cultural sanction, (ie the criminals), what analysis are we faced with having to make about Aboriginal Australia? First, it must be noted, that at one time, and at another, and in many times past, we had our criminals kept well within full letter of the law, within our own frame of reference, about what a letter is, and what the law is. (Letters are like a symbol representing a sign, and the law is true witness of signs. Not usually road signs though, but it can be if we can read true.) But then the invader’s moved everybody, onto each other’s land, and mixed up language groups, and mixing up local variations in belief in how to show what is real, and by doing that they gave a wrong advantage to the weakest people in every community; to who might not have become a criminal if they had not been given a wrong advantage; but also to children, some of whom simply refused to believe in that advantage. I think about all this, remembering what I have observed, and wondering how many other Aborigines, already also noticed that the Howard government were helping to promote into powerful jobs, those Aboriginal persons who might be more likely to accept certain stories about how they were achieving being given that job. Even in education, who gets helped most, are who want to believe that they are being given their fair share by being blacker than somebody else, and by blaming who get their share by wanting to be white, and the police seem to give everybody an easier time then. Those same police who go behind black fellow’s backs and accuse the whole black community of being racists, right after they agree with a black person that being white must be the problem. What the Aboriginal person’s who got the promotions all have had in common, was compliance with the continued rape of traditionally oriented cultures. Nobody likes to say so, but this might as well be the place to, since worse here is already told. There are truly decent folk, some black, other’s white, some Aboriginal, others non-Aboriginal, who just did not believe in the full extent of traditionally oriented cultural sanctions, perhaps because they wanted to escape those sanctions being applied, and perhaps because they just never had their lessons made to their own song, and so they were complicit and compliant, without having a stable consciousness of what they were complying with. You can point the finger at me if you like, since I could have identified in 1988, when that way was made open to me, but it was being closed down as soon as it was being opened, by well meaning other white fellows, who imagined that identifying was only for getting money, and by the time I realised that I had been convicted by the Holy Spirit thirty years too long, and started to say that I will identify because having an Aboriginal identity is not about waiting for “hand-outs”, but is, in my own life, knowing that I have indigenous ancestry from intermarriage way back in the early 1800’s, really all about being putting my pride where it belongs, in the land and her flora and fauna. You could alternatively point the finger at me because I believed the non-Aboriginal socialist white fellows, who told me that out in the bush, the “full-blood” community are racist against “half-castes”. That was when I was nineteen. Later, when I was thirty eight, a traditional initiated man married me temporarily, and I learned the truth. I already knew then, from an Asian spiritual tradition taught in Europe and America, that when a man conceives a baby in his wife, he calls into her a spirit, that he could see as pink if it is a girl, and blue if it is a boy. It is probably a men’s secret, so since I am still a girl, not yet married to the right husband for me in Kinship, I have to tell this men’s knowledge out, so that the men can get their knowledge back again, and stop the police from giving too much hard time to any husband who gets near me, sure my own sons were sung into my womb by a different man from whose genetics we have to work with. And my hands are in this sink of dirty dishes water, because I had a dream from a Turkish family, with an answer to a prayer, that I’ll have to do these dishes more often to get that husband, and so I wash and I wonder, and the Olympics are on the tele and I wash, and I wonder what? That temporary husband, while we were camped together in a city Botanic gardens one night, he is who told me, that what I needed to tell him, is which side of my body is making an egg, and then I remembered about pink for girls and blue for boys, and after that, when I already turned thirty nine, I remembered about traditionally oriented communities using the words “half caste” different to how white fellows might, and I remembered that miscarriage I had in 2003, after conceiving to the wrong fellow at the tent embassy, and seeing a dog’s shadow come into me, and I remembered how after seventeen weeks growing inside me, and another week dying, the baby I miscarried had brains, a spinal cord and vertebrae, intestines, but no other bones; and so I know now, I know what the difference is in how traditionally oriented people call one person a half caste and another one a full blood. I know well enough that I will be making sure my own sons are informed not to be conceiving any half caste babies, but instead, to be real true full bloods themselves. Now it is not so common for a white girl like me, who grew up in the white mainstream, to readily be realising the traditionally oriented cultural meanings, which are embedded today in modern urban contexts no less than in antiquity. Yet that I am as I am, and able to, has to be regarded as a point of reference for how much cultural recovery is already achieved, and that it can be achieved, is a proven fact. If the whole Aboriginal community fail to recognise the real achievement, it is not going to be a loss for my children, but I write this to prevent it becoming a loss for other, darker skin children; and so I find myself wanting to put things into words that are not usually said, because I found my own way back into a traditional point of view, through my memory of being at Kurnell on the dawn of January 26th 1988, and through ordinary public libraries, and I notice often enough, how the understanding I have reconstructed, is still being prevented among black youth, by the police. Yet I have been more thoroughly policed than most, and more thoroughly socially isolated than most, but have not broken their legislation in any way in which the police have been able to prove their bad stories about me. I did not rely upon making myself a burden upon any black community, but I have carved my own song into the face of my own environment, and I have accepted the burdens of what costs the Earth, within knowing I need no money to believe in my own expensive life being too much for the Earth to keep on paying for, when it might have been without me accepting my own faults entirely, as well as the faults of many many other folk who surround me, and who fail daily to accept their own faults well enough, and so I accept myself gently enough, as a faulted being, who is committed to paying in full for that fault and many faults around me. I make no excuse for being white, but accept the bad luck of being susceptible to sunburn, and know that my white skin might be what saved me from the pits of an even worse story over there in England, where it was already dark as I left work at 5pm, and had been dark when I entered that building at 7.30 am, and so in half an hour of sunlight every day, the story I am learning survived by me being white enough to thrive in the dark. Where I am born, has a song that travels through Indonesia, India, Arabia, Europe, Alaska, and New Zealand, including both Calcutta and Albania, and so London became no foreign land for me in my travels when young, but as I was then, convicted by the Holy Spirit, how could I have known that what I was always believing in was my own Aboriginality. And so now you have something of the story of the hands which wash my dishes, during these Olympics on the television, and during a sad story about the word “intervention”. And I am remembering which one it was yesterday on the train, among a group of young guitar players, who wanted more of my story about what a songline is. It was not the best one, but the tallest, most Australian like, who found his mind bound by my words. So I wonder, am I the only white girl who was at that Corroboree in 1988, surrounded by a small group of white friends, surrounded by many more black, who have all since then achieved more obviously self decent outcomes, but was I the only white one who has studied enough comparative religion to prove that dreamtime mythology is really real stories, even inside a white cultural outlook, or is it especially in this way, and am I the only who had already experienced being caught in a life threatening natural disaster, that predisposed my psychology to wanting to deny mainstream definitions of success, and then I know that I am not the only one among us white fellows who participate in such events, who sustain an ongoing interest in getting to the bottom of what is happening in English usage patterns, so that we will one day be able to manage English words into a decent form of communication. I even happen to believe, that by modifying English usage, through adjustments to the grammar patterns we write English words into, that we can rejuvenate social valuation of indigenous languages, and while I write of my washing up, I remember the young black sniffers getting told to get off the train, whose brains were wanting to reject English word speech, and I wonder will they learn to improve their way of English usage now; maybe like they are in India, where they have had longer to practise in English, and are already all accustomed to three different sorts of languages. Indians all had already, a local indigenous tongue, and Hindi, and for who wants to learn from traditional texts, Sanscrit, and they made English the way for everybody in their country also. In India, they teach that the key for English grammar, is to have too many words. Which is only obvious, since these sentences are defined by the cat who is stalking the baby snake, who twists and turns to get out of their strange friendship bound together at the river Thames, where there are no snakes left any more, and way too many cats. And I remember “the owl and the pussy cat” nursery rhyme, and that photograph I saw of a mother cat who found a baby owl, and raised it with her kittens, and so my thoughts take flight and remember perhaps not to let you all in on my secret here, about when I remember the owl and the pussy cat. Perhaps you might have noticed about me already, that I am not the sort of success story in white people’s mainstream culture, that many people have hoped I would prove to be, just slightly successful at the most difficult and eccentric fringes of what is socially acceptable. I will not complain but, yet need to throw caution to the wind today, and put my dishes into the atmosphere of the Olympic story, and its influences in the electro-magnetic fields around our towns, cities, and houses. I heard three things about the time around me, about the eighth of the eighth, two thousand and eight, and Chinese luck, and about that planet Pluto, which got demoted into being a moon, telling a story about the stars called Sagittarius, who rule over sport telling stories to politics, and about how this is the last Olympics with that story in it, and I am remembering something happening seven days before Friday last week, (8/8/08) that didn’t make it to an eighth day, I remember that we are still a little short of eight years from the Corroboree in two thousand, and I expect everybody will think it silly of me to wonder like this, but then I saw a photo of a crop circle, made by men trying to pretend it was made by aliens, telling a story about Saturday 16th August, and how there will be a strange opening shadow that day, and the crop circle picture also tells how their bad stories might be going to try to make us all feel too greedy that day, and I realise that the opening they wanted to use, by putting their symbols into the crops, so that the entertainment media would show their pictures, is an opening that will only ever really be able to be used by each one of us who can keep our memory of what we are, and who our self is, apart from our understanding of real spirit. I remember that when the shadow of Earth is at the moon, I might still now rely upon Pluto as a moon if I need to learn my moon story, that has a sound like a “W”, of words, like worth, wealth, work, and wisdom. So I keep this day clear for making a story in it about seven sisters, who got marked as seven mother’s of seven races, who the geneticists can find the patterns of in the human genome, and I remember very well how those geneticists already know that Australian Aborigines are the only race who already had all seven markers. Yet today, the efforts which some strange American criminal conspiracies have exercised, has caused that their own land is breeding a new race, who are black, and some of whom have already realised that an Australian story is causing their own to honour. And so I write of their fast paced clever use of words, and remember how much effort all the Muslims have made to give those Americans good tools for bending languages with, and I remember and I wash, and the dishes are no less dirty than the day before, but it is not too bad washing up today. Yet still today I wonder how I will be able to ascertain which parts of my story are the ones that the men need me to be letting outside, in our outside world of acknowledgement of who, how, what, and why, Aboriginal Australia is, and so I wonder also what place these words, typed now, originally thought of at the sink, written first in pen, and eventually in an e-mail, will find to belong on the boundary of what belongs inside and what is outside. And I wash my dishes, noticing the world as it is. Wondering about that intervention, knowing, beyond all reasonable doubt, that my own life has been similarly intervened with, by government bureaucracy, soldiers, and police; and that the intervention in my life, began to be too bad when I was in China, seventeen and a half years ago, being advised in my interests by an American professor of American movies who had been working in North Korea, he told us, but to his own merit, that intervention did not begin to bother me, until its extent increased after I began to tell everybody properly about having Aboriginal ancestry, here in Australia, first at the opening of the National Museum in Canberra, and then when by July 2002, I knew I was already recovering, and then when in 2003 police surveillance on me increased, and increased again in 2005, and the police were always applying to me the kind of psychological pressure which many Aborigines are subject to, yet upon me, the story the police forced me to dream, as they are forcing many Aboriginal children, it happened within my confidence of a right to access the whole of the white society. A confidence born in the fact that my ancestors include German aristocracy, who were bound up in the start of the Teutonic knights, so that I have to know, and did always first accept, that my ancestry is of the invaders no less that it is of the invaded, and in my simple acceptance of my family, and our strange posh ways, which lost their wealth through intermarriage with Aborigines, that is my real gain, inside this head of mine, within its bizarre genetics, I am even in having been born, been living a real reconciliation, between the Europeans who first invaded Muslim lands, and the original inhabitants of this my own land, Australia, whose far off dreams, those European invaders tried to rob the Arabian culture’s of. I have an idea about the police and their often startling observations of me, about why it is not connected to my skin shade, because negative police attention is directed towards who can truly believe, in our inside self, that we have ownership. We do not have the stuff which police protect the ownership of, but we do have ownership of our own body, our own lives, and ourselves. We own our own voluntary muscle contractions even when we can own nothing else, and in accepting the full story of that ownership, we own no less than the richest of men; and my writing reminds me of my own muscle strength and to correct it where it still needs improving. Every culture and religion has a lesson about how the worst that can be lost is yourself, but that, if you have won yourself, then you have won everything, and this is what I know. That police discriminate most of all against who is winning themself. They do that to us because they want to be like us. They want to be like us, because when they try to be like us, they notice how much we are worth inside our own dreams, but they only notice our real worth by assuming it was already theirs to have. They fail us because they have no idea how to really be like us by working the dreaming of our birth, but when we give them an idea, that is a real idea, we might become ourselves more expensive, but then they have an idea about why not to bother us too badly, we who commit no crime. And if it happens to be, that their only idea, is that if they harass me too bad, then they might not have a happy dream to follow from among those I could provide when they blame me, then that is the idea we have to work into, and improve them. They are nothing, the police, if not more emotionally and psychologically cruel towards one another, then ever even they have been against us, but that is simply because, they assume our worth, in the stories of our land, is theirs to take, and it is a worth that is the subject of their own harassment, and so they harass themselves more terribly than we are able to imagine. Try forgiving just one policeman, for only a short while, and you can also realise their predicament they share with those who they discriminate against. You might think that at least they could prove clever enough to learn to discriminate against somebody who is not being so badly harassed, wouldn’t you? That is, once you learn how bad their own internal mental torture can be, if that is what you were wanting to learn. The lesson is that, when we attempt to manipulate their belief, if we use their techniques, we only cause them to worsen in use of those techniques against us, since they are lead by what they suppose of us, might already have been their right to know; yet if we remember compassion for their belief in the worth of legislative governance, which they have been all trapped into the cycles of, then we find a few police who might seek only to do the least harm possible, as a collective outcome. There are a few things I have learned about my own story, that I learned from them, the police, through the fact, that back in 1988, my boyfriend then, who is from England, has a father, who is from Wales, who had worked for the British secret service, and who had been a Dean of International Relations, and fluent in speaking Ancient Greek, Russian, and Chinese, and what I learn from those police about how they themselves regard my own story, is that as I tell these things, it happens to make a pattern, which happens to be similar to the pattern of that Howard government’s intervention, which happens to be because what they do to traditionally oriented Aborigines, is something which they happen to want to be able to blame another person for, and they happen to have noticed that any Aborigine, even one with white skin, accepts being blamed by them, more readily than anybody else, and they happen to have found me, and so the patterns happen to correlate. There are direct correlations which terrify me, because my every effort could not prevent certain outcomes, that there is no fault of my own in having failed to prevent, and there are indirect correlations about how English usage patterns have been wrong to twist the words of England, a land where language is different to how we say English words here in Australia, and where there is another way of speaking, that takes its sounds from how the government decided to make spelling have conventions. Luckily there are also magic spells, and spells that are like short holidays, so spelling is not in too much trouble, even if my reputation has been. One correlation I have noticed, was that what motivates the far right wing of government and policing, was their wanting to try to prevent my children from accessing Aboriginal culture. That is poor of them, since they ought to remember how much they like to rely on wise children. So I reason with myself, about the wisdom they seek when they removed children from a mother’s place, and I expect to find, that in adulthood, strong in ownership of place, enabled by being equally strong in letting the land own us, its people, and I expect to find, that if I will be able to give them an improved story to do their policing in, BECAUSE of being obedient to kinship, loving the land, and truly ensuring the sanctity of childhood, then they might find that they want to let me. They, the far right wing, have set up myself, and one of my sons, to seem as though it might have been possible for us to be guilty of sexual violations. Most of my energy, over the past six years, has been directed into figuring out how to step out of the nightmares I woke up in the middle of, and to do that without breaking law, and without anybody else needing to take my story for me; but it is a true story, and we are winning, me and my sons, even though there are parts still too sad to have any words. Then it is also true, that the far right wing, among government and police, have been so afraid of how obvious my story is, that they have worked very hard, to set up too many people to seem to be who was doing the bad things to us, to trick us out of realising who it really was. I happen to have also met far right wing criminals who believe that it is they who have always been in control of the far right wing police and officials, and they foolishly included, in those who they set up into seeming to be who wanted to hurt me, my children’s Irish Dad, whom my sons will not let me blame. So while I oppose my self inside every day, and prevent myself from blaming, my own parents, my children’s step mother, (if my sixteen year old son was Hansel, then the wicked witch whose house he is at tonight, since I have been socially demoted to the station of a mother with no legal authority to tell him where is ought to sleep, is a woman whose own story of what she did to herself while on top of Uluru, is one I might yet die of embarrassment about if I have to tell anybody what she told me), and, of course, any and every person with darker skin than I have, they have tried to set up into the pattern of being wrong to me. But I could not believe them, when they informed me that no black achievement was made without blaming vulnerable white folk. Just as I know that any achievement made through blaming, is no real achievement, I see that blacker folk than I, are all the more real in any achievement. Glad I am of not having ever felt as though anybody exists who is whiter than me, and who might owe me on that basis, perhaps only because it is a relief to not have yet another temptation to face, but the paler skin is, the more susceptible the mind is to being tricked into blaming a paler person, and so as pale as the palest, I succeed. And the equestrian events are on the television, and my slightly less pale son, asks about why the rider’s are known as the athletes rather than the horses, and he is affronted with how wrong it is that a horse rider needs to afford to own a horse to be able to go to the Olympics, because he is quite convinced that he could be at a future Olympics in Tae Kwon Do, if only he wanted to, and I believe him, and I tell him the story about my friend who is a horse rider, and was tricked into spending much too much money and time, caring for another family’s horse, only to be able to ride it sometimes, and had lessons and paid for stables, and horse rent, all to ride a horse in competitions, which if she achieved well in, would improve the sales value of the horse. She must have liked to make her own social value that way, we realise. Then we talk about how to make sure we can afford for my son to have more Tae Kwon Do lessons, but that he might prefer still to be spending money on video games, since when he turned seven, he told me he wanted to make video games when he grows up, and today he proved to me that there is already a real Bachelor of Computer Games available, which he wants to do at university, and so we know it has not been too bad how things are working out, and I find out where it is possible to study computers and Tae Kwon Do both at the same time, and I tell my son about how horses can betray their riders if they want to, and are mean about it too. I knew a woman who moved to my son’s birth place, to get away from city drugs, and became a racing horse trainer, but her own horse, one day, was a bit upset with her, and trod on her pet cockatiel, and remembering that, I know we are working it all out O.K. even though I was wanting to spell bachelor like batchelor. So I am at the sink still, washing up, while the Olympics is on the television, and the ideas pass more swiftly through my brain than I have now written, and typed, but I know I have remembered the whole sequence true, and I remember how my sequences are tempered by some of the bizarre strangers I have met, many of whom thought they already knew me. Some of them I had to tell to, that they had been dreaming, because they thought that they had remembered me from inside those brothels, which I had dreams of twice, but have noticed the evidence of, around me in the world too often, and have not yet given thanks enough for those Aboriginal men who stepped into the roles of finding out the real story, but could not say it, and so gave it to me, while they were also preventing the story of the inside of brothels from becoming real in my own movements. And I remember the bloke who was a real neo-Nazi I met, the one with too much information about the police, but was not police, and who wanted to prove to me, that his own part of organised crime had already won the day, since they imagine that the entire Catholic Church is sustained only by their crime enabling the clergy. He tried to play chess against me, and I saw how he cheated, and he wanted to tell me that he had to make me his own, since he had been having cocaine nightmares of me for all of thirty two years, but since he seemed to only like nightmares, he had no real chance. But he told me about his father belonging to a group called the Plymouth Brethren, and I remember how a group called the Exclusive Brethren were meeting John Howard immediately after Howard did the intervention legislation, so now I have to make a hunt for the piece of paper I saw already this morning, listing another group who live here in Brisbane, and name themselves a Brethren, like the ones who let a Tasmanian author make a novel about, of what they want the world to believe about them, and my brains know that all the pieces of another story are inside me, so while I write, and I have to work now towards making all the right pieces of that story, get out at the right moment, on another day. The strange thing is this, that dangerous character, had believed that he might need to convince me of his own victory, by raping me, because he also recognised the achievement within me of cultural recovery. Their game is to try to prove to Aborigines, that we always were just as bad as them. The far right wing, all rely upon somebody, who relies upon somebody, who needs to be internally acknowledging their theft of Aboriginal stories. And so I remember other people I know, who have been just as bizarre and eccentric, but not nearly so dangerous, like the one who approached me out of the blue, and eventually, after waiting for evidence he could trust me, just told me outright that my dreams are real, and his own people believe in how I have dreamed the world, and he named me, a name I have dreamed I am. So now, in this story, starting at a kitchen sink, with a fear of what might be if my dishes are not washed, this is what got into my mind, from a worry about that intervention. I remember how the big money bosses of capitalism, like to find fault with others, as though they can excuse their own accumulation of economic resources that way, and I remember how they make up faults if they can find none; but they need somebody to blame for the faults they make up. Then, next thing I am remembering, is an essay I did a lot of research for, in a unit of study at ANU, for a degree I never finished, named Classical Marxism. My essay was about how the capitalist mode of production intervened with the work of midwives. I remember being shocked to discover, then with my third son, who is born at home, with a friendly homebirth midwife, who made me deliver him all by myself, a small baby in my arms in the university, at classical Marxism lectures, I learned what to correlate the history of obstetrics with, to learn that the history of the profession of obstetrics, having taken over from the midwives, can be mapped exactly upon the history of capitalist accumulation, and tells that story more speedily than it is told in any other industry. Where the wool mills were slow to improve mechanisation and reduce labour expenses, the obstetricians who took over from midwives, by promises to remove the baby faster than a midwife will, began with two weeks of training in how to insert forceps, and they were employed only because they undercut the costs of reciprocal obligation associated with using the midwives. Costs that then in Europe, had involved long term food, medicine, and story exchanges. The socialists teach me well, we need to stop our labour being a commodity, and now I know, after giving birth a third time, that to do that, first we have to stop our health being a commodity. The first forceps might have saved a wife from dying by needing to be cut open to get her baby out, and the social cost is, if not the life of a wife, the abuse of her womb every day thereafter. I believe that the reason my children were removed from me was because of the accumulation of money by capitalists. I know my own worth as a mother, far surpasses that care they are given in the house that the family court awarded their residency to; and I know that the reason I have had no recourse, so far, for justice in the matter, is because of the fears of the right wing, police, criminals, and those religious bosses who don’t really believe what they preach. I remember their fears for them, whenever they fail to remember that they are afraid, and I wash my dishes, wondering, what part of their fears can they remember without me, and without what my own life has been. There are many details about this part of the story, about children being removed, but I will not put these here, and neither will I care for who has been trying to imagine that my own story is not the same story as of every child stolen from its mother, and should they try to say that I am wrong because I have tried to tell Aboriginal persons with darker skin than my own is, that children are removed because of capitalism, they will prove their own motivation only too well. I wash my dishes. I wonder, did our enemies make that intervention because they want to prevent a traditionally oriented way of life, and particularly, I wonder, did they want to prevent that Aborigines can give birth to babies, who will grow up in this world, today, now, in a nomadic hunter gatherer culture, without ever needing a dollar, without needing a birth certificate, or even citizenship? I wonder. But I do not know, and as I am conceived after the referendum in 1967, I cannot be too sure. But I am far too sure, for a girl, who has sons but no husband, about what is going wrong when the police will only let men who have been in prison come near me, and I see how obvious it is in their prison experience, that the commodity all wrong trade is upon, is health. They get taught in prisons, to trade upon death, as though one man’s death can be another man’s gain, but thereby all they do is prove their own death story to be insurmountable, and so I know that their trade is upon our health. And with all this wonder in my head, with my own post traumatic stress condition too often already preventing me from speaking, I can’t help but wonder some more, if maybe now it is time. This time now might be that time we all celebrated with Whitlam and Lingari. Because if it is not, no worse could exist than is already. Time to wake up and face how the Earth itself is proving to each and every human, that there is no expense we can afford to spare, in our work, each as individuals in our own way, to prevent capitalist accumulation from stripping the Earth of her life. Time to wake up while we still have enough forests and ground covers to grow the seeds we will replant the Earth’s wood from. We know it is time. Have long known. Like I know that you might find the worth in my words that you will need to read these with, more readily, if only you might find it within your own capacity to forgive somebody like the old German lady I met one day, at a bus stop at Broad Beach. She asked me to prevent the Aboriginal gentleman, who was then accompanying me, from spilling his coolibah cask wine on her, which he seems to be doing just to irritate and embarrass us all about being white. He is proud, black, and owns the story of the crow who dropped its feathers for the swans, so that Australia has black swans. The lady explains to me, quite angrily, eventually, in a very Germanic style, that she was raped and tortured as a young girl in the Hitler Youth, by an alcoholic man, and that she was already re-experiencing her trauma by witnessing my friend, and so I am under an obligation to her to prevent my friend from his behaviour. She has that most precise and pointed manner about her, that some German’s can manage, while simultaneously proving themselves to be block heads. (Like me, with my combination of ancestry from the British Isles, Germany, and Greece, together with Aboriginal ancestry that has its paper records lost to the disapora of all the Emus; proving the blockheaded way of being Germanic, to be a matter of real pride.) She was so well organised in her precision about stating that it was unconditionally important for me to obey her wishes instantly. I knew it would be impossible, and I feared her trying to attract the police. But then I stopped my fear, and I simply told her, within my own Germanic precision, that my friend is a victim of neo-Nazism in the Australian prisons, where the patterns of abuse are exactly the same as those undertaken by Himmler, Hilter, and those other main five bad dudes, who used the same story like in the Seven Samurai, and the Magnificent Seven movies, I am thinking to bind her by her own pattern, and she immediately exhibited great compassion towards him. Then, I told him, in the words and manner he could understand my meaning from, what she had told me, and what I had told her, and they sized each other up. I stood back and watched while they made a blood way bond between themselves, in a silent agreement to learn about each the other, as means to facilitate their own recovery; they mutually offered a bond of reciprocal obligations to one another, each for having thought badly of the other without reason. It was all being communicated in body language, and the most simple of words, as simple as baby talk. And we three sat at the bus stop, and caught the same bus together in silent agreement, all witnessing, that the pattern is indeed the same, right down to the most basic verbal triggers, and we all quietly celebrated in our own way, in silent surety of recovery being real. The language they could use to communicate to one another, came out sounding exactly alike to the actual neo-Nazis, in our prisons and other positions of authority, like who had come to rule the whole nation of Germany; and within that tone, and demeanour towards one another, as though both already wearing the jack boots, the old German lady, a survivor of the Hilter Youth, and my, then recently turned forty, Aboriginal man friend, a survivor of forced removal from his mother, and Australian prisons, they communicated agreement in needing to live the truth of having been forced into displaying the opposite of their real belief. The man truly was startling in his skill at sustaining full belief in himself, no matter what befell him. He believed in Angels and dreamed an Angel saving his life. He believed in his own behaviour being faulted, and faulted only himself, as far as any person could ever find fault in himself. He believed in Jesus and Jesus remembers him true. The only reason he did not always believe in me, was because he first believed in many other people, who might have wanted him to fail to protect me. So if he failed to protect me, it is not by his intention, and if he failed to depict my story accurately, it could be that his inaccuracy only exists in your own mind. Yet, he had wondered if he might not want to really kill me, and would have too if he had found me knowing anything without learning by true law, and he did not. His way in kinship is really that of a father to my own story. My own real birth father, in his job as a scientist, knew about the Greenhouse effect before Whitlam was elected. Perhaps we did not, or could not, back then, agree on how to stop it, but now we have to. I believe that how we will achieve the social change that needs to occur, will be through the culture of Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal Australians, and that traditionally oriented communities all over Australia, will prove to the trade unions, that since the capitalists are doing this intervention to us Aborigines, then it must be that they have already done it to everybody else. All those everybody else people who are easier to plunder, rape, and psychologically abuse than we Aborigines can be forced to be, it has all already been done to them, perhaps so many times that they just simply lost count. They are given sit down money too, money that makes them want to forget what is still being done to them. Enough money that they get to keep their children, because otherwise who will grow up to buy commodities which nobody needs, and enough money to feel tempted into believing that owning it makes them equally wrong as the capitalists who control the most of it. Those people, who seem to be coping alright, and it seems that nobody intervenes with their lives, but it also seems like they are the real problem often, because an intervention has been done against them so many times that they could not believe any more about how much all humanity is needing to swallow. And so, each individual person, must learn to believe in exactly that amount of the worst that is, which is the amount they can believe in, and can also accept the story of working to prevent. And those of us who can accept knowing about the largest amount of faults existing, within a fully accountable culture, and story of being a real believer, if we fail even once to accept as much of the fault as we are able to, even though that is exactly what our enemies want us to do, then we have in our hearts the guilt of providing our enemies with their excuse. Do you know, that people exist, who comprehend that fact, and use it to their advantage over you, as though it is your fault, that they know you are not ensuring they accept their own fault. The Chinese, knowing the psychology of this, have predicted that the story of the gang of four and their cultural revolution will prove to be the end of the old Chinese stories of a peasant overthrowing the government, because now, the peasants all know. At the bottom line, what the capitalists game of accumulating