Normally A Bad Bride

( aka “Normally a bad bride is not so bathed in light.”)

Normally, when I begin to consider writing some words down, the first sequence which comes to mind is that which makes the most sense to me, and I retain it, always reticent to alter my original words.

Today, a bizarre thing has happened to me. I will tell it in the same order as it happened. I woke up with a dream that I needed a new story, and best make it a good Scottish story. I am not Scottish, and I am not Indian, or Sri Lankan, but I am an Australian. The dream I had in my mind this morning, came from a known source in my life, but from a person I have never spoken to, and for whom English is undoubtedly a second, third, forth, fifth, sixth or seventh language. He is a traditionally oriented Aboriginal man who I communicated with non-verbally recently. His country, has the feel of being the best beloved land. So, because he is an important man, (although he has no special importance within English speaking culture), and because I also believe in the culture of traditionally oriented (T.O.) Aborigines, (that is Aborigine with a capital “A”, to differentiate us Australian Aborigines from all other aborigines), I believe that this dream I had this morning is normal for me to be obedient to. But this is not the bizarre thing.

Now, because I am beginning at the beginning, I have to tell you another thing about myself also, before I can explain what is bizarre that happened. I am a white Australian, whose ancestors come from Greece, Germany, and England, but I am also Aboriginal. I have a few ancestors whose origins cannot be traced within the means and methods brought by British invasion of our land, and a set of stories indicating that the probability of intermarriage between the invaders and Aborigines, is almost undoubtedly the fact of my family tree; but I know I am and Aborigine because it is a belief in myself that I can find no way out of without becoming ill. However, I must caution you to be careful about what you believe of our use of this word “Aboriginal”, and “Aborigine” and “Aboriginality”, which is something I have within my identity. What I mean to say, is that I am an indigenous Australian, even though my ancestors are from many different parts of Europe. Precision in differentiating meaning between aborigine, native, indigenous, and that other word with a similar meaning, are not being accurately practised here in Australia. My own family records include a woman with the same name as myself, which is Rebecca, (in Hebrew Rivaq), who also had long red hair like myself (until it had to be cut, given to pay a debt, and is now in the possession of a Japanese doll and prosthetics maker, who, in return, has given me models of the cuneiform tablets of the Sumerian myth of Innana, which is the story of the ley line I also am born at, in Armidale of New South Wales), and who (my ancestor Rebecca I refer to again now) had been a Jew, born in 1833 in London, and immigrated to Australia with her parents, to a town called Tamworth where there is a modern country music festival of some infamy. The ancestors I have who immigrated to Australia include those who had Muslim ancestors also, from intermarriage between Greeks and Turks, and also through the Crusades. Yet I am, in my essence, irrefutably indigenous to Australia.

I know this because I have a dream of when I am first becoming a human being, and I know that it happened at a place near to the part of Australia named the Pilbara, and near to where diamonds are mined today, perhaps one day one of those diamonds will cross my path and that may be how I can have had this dream, since normally I bear no images of the past, little own such a long distant past, and yet the dream is real, and recognised by spiritual leaders among Aborigines. I know that my first father is named Pundjah, and he is a Saint, or a Guru, honoured even today for his past work within the Aboriginal tradition in that part of Australia; but I only know this from within my own Dreamtime, so I could not expect anybody to believe it, or could I? My own Dreaming also contains acknowledgement that, among Australian Aborigines are those whose Spiritual origins are of other lands, existing now here in Australian through patterns of migration which occurred simultaneous with the Exodus of Israelites under Moses, and often from Far East Asia, but in my own family, like others who orient more notably with the western parts of Australia, also of India. Yet again I mention this in passing as only a Dream, and cannot substantiate my claims with pieces of paper to prove it, since our culture had no written language tradition, despite even Levites living among. “Dreamtime”, and “The Dreaming” are anthropologists expressions which have been adopted by many Aborigines, even though those words are inadequate to describe our experiential belief in each our own independent world of all that is sacred. Sure enough, sometimes the sacred may manifest in our dreams of sloth as we lie in bed, but usually not. Yet the world of all that is sacred is real and can be touched, even when without paper, pens, and writing.

Now I have told you this much about myself, I can tell you also that in our Aboriginal culture, we have a difference to any other culture. One way to define this difference, is just to say that, in every interpersonal communication, we almost always, (unless working to mind being respectful of the culture of other persons), place our weaknesses, and the faults immediately present in us, at the start of the communication, as though a shield, through which no human communication may pass, until the worst is proven able to be navigated. If I am myself not in perfect self knowledge, it is forbidden for me to be portraying myself this way, either among our people, or to any other person. I know a rumour that when the first Muslims who arrived here among us, sometime between six and seven hundred years ago, (as that arrival is registered in the myth cycles of Arneham land which is one of the points of entry to Australia from Indonesia, and is also mentioned in a modern film called “Ten Canoes”, but not as an invasion, and rather as the introduction of a new system of religious law), they all had to swallow very very very many of our animal stories before they could get anywhere with us. Today, there are a few Aboriginal Australian men born Hafiz. These men deserve our congratulations for their perseverance with our native tradition. I know one who is hafiz, born in my own home town, a few years older than me, and almost as white as I am. We are no less Aboriginal for being white, despite what too many Australians pretend. They have all swallowed too many magpie geese, those who want to make disputes between black and white, I expect, since the Woolloongabba cricket ground, here in Brisbane, is built on a sacred circle, which is close to where the magpie geese increase ceremonies, for maintaining food supply, happened. There is a hotel nearby the The Gabba, also built on a sacred Bora ring, which had been traditionally where black and white persons of Aboriginal descent would transmit real communication to one another, but today it is a gay bar.

Now perhaps you have enough information of my cultural context to be able to understand why I went to the library this morning and found a book with a good Scottish story in it. This story has to begin with the dream, even though it is the story of what is happening in my real life considerations, from reading the Scottish story, because without the dream it might not ever have been able to be real.

Right now, what is real for me, is that I am sitting in my living room with my lap top on top of my lap, and the television is on, and it is showing a flock of budgerigars, which are those small green parrots which inhabit much of the interior of Australia, (as well as quite a few cages, but they far prefer to live in large flocks), and I am wondering upon why I fell to eating more porridge of besan, tahina, and garlic, before I began to write these words. It was as though I could justify eating too much because I intended to put my mind’s contemplation into writing, and so I am showing you here how I am far from innocent, as is our cultural inclination.

I will eat more before continuing, I thought to myself, knowing it may be wrong to, and suddenly a Perente, (like a large goanna, or monitor lizard), appears on the television and warns me of my accuracy. It is eating a budgerigar. And so with a fuller belly I continue.

Perhaps you have noticed how our cultural inclination takes effect now. It is our very humanity to be fully conscious at all times of the processes by which any amount of unwilling, or wrong minded, contemplation, within the human species, needs to be immediately attributed into the natural kingdom of flora and fauna, and at times even into geological forms. In this way, and by undertaking these processes within a willing nature, and through God/Allah always, we fall into the traps of those whom we are open to, and assume the retribution of all with whom we communicate with, need be shared by ourselves also when we fall to its ill causes, and by surviving with a human outlook, prove the strength of our humanity, within the unequivocal survival of human Spiritual contemplation.

Now the parrots on television are larger, a kind of green rosella, which red and blue near to its beak. Another larger green parrot that resides near the sea. Gang Gang cockatoos, who are black with red heads and red feet, and yellow tailed black cockatoos. All these birds are with me as I write, and I am obligated to regard these species as brethren. Like also the banksia trees they are feeding from, and I am reminded of how our practise of exorcism is so very reliant upon the flora, for it is the flora which mistakes based merely in the wrong of faith, of mistaken timing, need to inhabit. Ah, and now it is the crimson rosella, the eastern rosella family, and King parrots. These parrots are the birds of the Australian suburban backyard, so have no mistake that I believe I am living indeed in paradise. And there appears now on television the familiar sulphur crested cockatoo, all white but for its yellow crest.

The book I found at the library, is called “One City” and is a set of short stories published about Edinburgh, by a foundation called the One City Trust, who are an Edinburgh charity organisation. The first story I have begun to read, and a story written in the first person, from the perspective of an Indian man. It is intriguing me. First it is intriguing me that anybody in Scotland might have the gall to try to pursue portraying an Indian person’s contemplations accurately, and secondly it is intriguing me, because it is placing a few parts of what I myself already could have told you, into far simpler language than I could have. Perhaps in a way that is embarrassingly simple, and as the golden shouldered parrot appears on the television, I realise it is only my own embarrassment. The golden shouldered parrot however, broods right inside of a termite mound, taking advantage of air conditioning of a termite mound, and also of a set of larvae which ingest the baby parrot’s faeces, reminding me of the mother Koala, who takes her faeces and places it in her pouch, mixing it with her milk, which, as it curdles, make the faeces ingestible for the baby koalas, which in turn, makes the adult koalas diet tolerable to the digestive system of the young koalas. Koalas eat only a select type of eucalyptus leaves.

Now again, another parrot, it is the largest of the cockatoos, a Palm Cockatoo, all black, with a black crest, and red cheeks. The Palm Cockatoos can live for up to ninety years in captivity, and when they mate, they mate for life. The male Palm Cockatoo is showing off to attract his mate, and he is showing how strong his beak is. I expect that perhaps it is good to inform you, that my own debt to pay for this writing, payable through living the lives of parrots here as I am making explicit, is already paid, such is the nature of the pattern of our culture, that when I now agree to become more parrots in the future, that will be to pay for what then comes after, such that my back will be covered in every respect. Thus we continue in this manner until there is nothing wrong in any human communication.

So now, provoked by the Palm Cockatoo who had been masquerading as the man in my dreams this morning, I am finding that there is a story in my bizarre occurrence which provoked me to write. First let me tell you something else about our culture: our dances are integral to our belief in the sacred world, and it is always for the men to perform the dances with animal postures, while normally a woman may only move her body in a far more human manner. Yet that is for dancing, while in ordinary life, it is more common for men to be who are sustaining the most human attitude of posture. I am contemplating how much I fell in love with the country in and around Alice Springs on my recent visits there to Arrerente country. The central deserts of Australia are often called the “red centre”, not without reason, for its soils and rocks are quite distinctly red, and the red ores have an unusually high degree of magnetism. Any metal object dropped in the sand is lost to humanity almost as soon as it falls.

I cannot believe that any travel to that region of our land could leave any man unaltered, for the better, and the Spiritual work being done there daily to accommodate tourists, is attenuated to this, with care. While the Australian government has carelessly let false accusations of child abuse become made against the communities of traditional people, some of who are just too drunk to be able to prove their culture, but many others of whom are hard at work constantly in performing exorcisms to rid the world of what we are all being accused with. Our victory is already established, despite the heavy police and military presence, of strange undercover operatives who cannot believe in our own worth, and so whom are attributing their own experiences to aliens, and are spending even tax payers dollars upon fallacies about police developing superhuman powers of observation through abducting aliens in space craft. It may well seem too crazy to even mention this fact, but when I happened to be in Alice, there were all too many other Aborigines telling me their concerns about how deluded the police are. I expect that the police need only learn the science about why Muslims can alleviate headaches by placing their forehead onto a rock, and then equate that with the rocks of our red centre having a certain magnetic attraction.

Now, I have to let my own story happen among and with all else I tell also, and I have telling that I had embarrassment in me, at how very simply another author was able to define what is strange about the English language, as it is spoken by the English people, normally in England. The book I am reading mentions that English is a fine language with precise meanings and requiring of a large vocabulary. This is mentioned as an Indian perspective upon English language, and so I remember learning recently from a linguist, also while in the Northern Territory, which is the state which Alice Springs is in, that English is one of the official languages of India. Now I am reading earlier today (actually right now I am writing not reading and there is a storm outside at dusk and the sky is quite yellow, and there are Galahs, another sort of parrot which is grey and pink, on the television, alongside the ordinarily startlingly beautiful rosellas), but reading earlier today, about how when English is used in India, it is used in honesty.

A startling matter is erupting in my contemplation over this fact. It is startling because I have been writing frequently for the past few years, in an unusual mode of English usage, in which I am attempting to consolidate use of an Aboriginal Australian grammar pattern with a larger English vocabulary than is today common among Aborigines. I am remembering during my mid-childhood, meeting a Brahman gentleman, who ate with my family one Christmas, because the hotel he stayed at had no vegetarian food available, and his daughter has worked here in Australia with my father, in the field of agricultural bio-chemistry research. I remember her well, and her teaching myself and my mother how to oil our hair. I remember longer than my mother, but my mother has a brain injury subsequent to that time, so none are to judge her too harshly. The Brahman father of our friend, said two things which stuck strongly in my mind.

He said once, to my father, that when it is very hot, as it had been that Christmas, it is not normal to consume more than half a glass of warm water to quench the thirst. I have never drunk iced water comfortably ever since. He said one other thing. He said that a woman finds herself in paradise by serving her husband, while a man finds himself in paradise by contemplating higher things.

For many years I had feminist ideas stuck in my mind, originally from my mother having taken an unnecessary insult from the Brahmin gentleman’s comments. Unnecessary because my mother was indeed herself working very hard for my father’s enjoyment; but yet she was infected by the ills of the west in that she imagined her own pleasure to be in having my father serve her in one instant. But one day, I woke up out of that feminist dream. It happened very gradually, but certainly.

So at first, I need to tell you how I came to be so infected myself by what was wrong in my own mother’s contemplations. When I was only three years old, I became, what is called, being “convicted by the holy spirit”, or, in other words, I became unwell with a slight, and acute, prolapsed lower diaphragm. It happened by accident, in a combination of my mother taking bad advice about a baby sitter for myself and my sister, and my own error of disobeying my mother, and when hurrying to remedy the breach, I made it worse by sitting in a bucket of hot water.

I had a long way to walk through my life story before I could even really recognise what the problem was. When I was eighteen, there was another accident, in which I was at natural hot water pools in the New Zealand mountains, and at night, a mountain slide happened in a thunder storm, and everybody present there that night came close to the end of our days. Little did I know that my subconscious became tangled in time between the fear of being a three year old stuck in a bucket, and the fear of being an eighteen year old experiencing and witnessing a very loud narrow escape.

The mountain slide scared my mind, in a way that made it impossible for me to trust the rules of the mainstream culture of the west. At first I had trusted that nobody would have placed a building in a dangerous zone, and so thought we must be safe, but it became proven wrong, despite the fact that if the building was not built there, and not made with an upper storey, we might have been in the building next door that was washed away down the river. My whole confidence in the sanctity of man made structures was demolished with the demolition of one and a half New Zealand’s National Park’s mountaineer’s huts, by many many tonnes of mud, large boulders, and tree trunks. Yet already, so long with a prolapsed lower diaphragm, not very much of the ways of the west were apparent to me, so I was already not especially attuned to what I then decided never to trust again. Always I had noticed that everybody was telling lies, but found the lying inexplicable, and was never given any reason for not trusting certain people, to whom I observed even my own mother and father did lie. My father, is good with attending to nature, and he always has something to say about what correspondences are present in any moment between our own wants and the natural world. When I wanted to become a vegetarian though, he showed me how pigs who are fed on soy beans contract cancer, but the lamb every night for dinner was making me feel sick. However, it was not every night, since my mother had learned from her Indian friends how to cook curries, and my favourite food became dahl and yogurt. We only ate curry when there were visitors though. But the point here, is that even without the mainstream culture, my own family had our own habits, in which I became perhaps more deeply influenced than other children might have become, and more finely attuned to the behavioural signs of where belief differs.

Then, in 1988, I attended a traditionally oriented Aboriginal Corroboree, which became made for the purpose of reinstating ancient Kinship codes of conduct among all Aboriginal Australians. In my presence there, unlike a few of the other white people present, I was included as an Aborigine for whom the Corroboree was performed. After that happened, I began to notice aspects of our own family, in which we are different from the mainstream of white Australia, yet these are ways in which we are also integrally and quintessentially Australian. There are many ways in which my whole family differ from the mainstream, but also many ways in which most of my family work more assiduously than most families, to prove that we fit into the mainstream of white Australia. Eventually, I even began to hear the stories about how my great aunties always stayed out of the sun so that they did not begin to look like brown skin people. But long before that had happened, my mother’s mother warned me, that if I continued to look at the black woman in an old family photo album, I would no doubt end up with an ugly, broad nostrils, black person’s shaped nose, just exactly has she had from being overly curious about that same photo. I looked on in considerable pride, because in my own generation, conceived after the 1967 referendum which made Aboriginal Australians citizens of Australia, we have a different story from those generations in which so many of my ancestors, and so many Australians whose white ancestors came here in the early 1800’s, had to hide the fact of any successful intermarriage with dark skin Aboriginal Australians. My ancestors, like many who intermarried before Federation in 1901, when all Aborigines were made wards of the state, often denied having Aboriginal ancestry, only so as that the children could be raised to inherit ancestral lands, within the invading system of government. Later, after Federation in 1901, the story became so bad for Aboriginal Australians, that ‘passing-as-white’, was the only way to prevent the risk of having ones children removed, with even old men made wards of the state, as though not an intelligent bone existed among. There is hardly anything surprising about the fact that many of my ancestors may have fought to deny the Aboriginal ancestry among us, which is not in any paper records, except perhaps police files, but which can also be verified by traditionally oriented Aborigines, through spiritual techniques, and has been verified about myself and my sons.

The Corroboree I attended in 1988 implanted a series of song and myth cycles of Aboriginal Australian tradition, into my subconscious, such that there was no way for me to awaken outside of the Aboriginal tradition. I am grateful for the song in a way there are no words for, because the words I know reality through, belong in languages I have never learned to speak in.

Another thing had to happen to me, before I could awaken. It is a set of things really, but one in particular I may need to emphasise. The set of things is related to the study of Eastern health care traditions, in which I could barely contemplate what the real meanings were, while in a prolapsed state, but had a real fear of not believing in also.

The other thing which happened, was not until early 2001, when I was in my early thirties, and I read a book by a man called George Ivanovitch Gurdjieff, called “Beelzebub’s Tales To His Grandson”. So strange that the undercover police today, seem to carry on in a set of major delusions which are based in that allegory, especially whilst also wanting to brand everybody who instils real faith through the allegory, as though schizophrenic. I will say this for Mr. Gurdjieff’s work. It is, as any good allegory need be, sufficiently difficult to believe in the reality of, that it really can drive to insanity anybody who reads it and fails in their belief. Mr. Gurdjieff’s ethnicity had been Greek, and within my own ancestry, the same ethnicity, and the same sort of patterns of intermarriage within it, truly enabled me to thoroughly comprehend the real meaning, without any shadow of a doubt.

Normally that book is read within groups, who ascertain relatively accurate information about one another’s personal level of accountability, and engage in exercises for grounding the contemplation of higher matters, back into the body. I had no such support, but was reading the book because a group of people who used it to sustain their own work, had tried to experiment on my psychology and made a mess of it, and I had become only too aware of what they were up to, and knew I needed to find out how they had made a mess of everything, only so as I could continue to raise my children in peace. Reading Beelzebub’s Tales To His Grandson settled my own psychology back into place, and I began to experience the accelerated rate of learning which that book can establish.

Yet it was still some few years before I really began to recover out of the prolapsed state. If this surprises you, attribute the capacity to the genealogy of Aborigines, and our general capacity for accurate observation. It surprises even me that I could recover, and I believe that no small miracle is working even today to sustain me, since I am not even yet married. Yet it is true to my own story to have always sustained perfect self knowledge. Truly I cannot sustain physical consciousness without constant observance of who I am, and I sleep less than most people.

Yet best believe me also, that my fall has been steep. I mentioned that I have sons, well, their father, is an Irishman, who fails consistently to believe in anything other than superstition and the devil. Once he said to me, that the only people he fears are the Scottish, and so, when I received the dream this morning to find a good Scottish story, I knew it is likely to have a positive function. What with the Irishman and his clan pestering my dreams nightly, and disturbing all my consequences, often enough through the combination of his friendships with members of the Canberra Gurdjieff Society, and his friendships with drug dealers, and undercover police. The nightmares in me are tangible in my living world, yet constantly also surpassed by the miracle in which I survive.

Now in this book “One City” I have begun to read, I have read about how the Scottish interpretation of an Indian living in Edinburgh, is of fearful contemplation about whether or not the English language is being used with real meaning. Perhaps an invitation is not literal? Perhaps many things might be real when words say only one thing, that might or might not be real. Or is the problem rather that the words are saying too many things I wonder. The words will always be saying seven things, but when somebody has imagined that a few of those seven meanings could not possibly be real, while another couple of strange and contradictory meanings may well be real instead, how can a language have any meaning at all?

I am happy today to be reintegrating my earlier understanding of how persons with an Indian education will be able to consider the abuse of meaning in dishonest use of English words. Now, today, I have been considering the Aboriginal use of English words extensively recently. In T.O. Aboriginal dialects of English, we do not believe that English as it is spoken by most people, is even a real language, and so the word “language” is not normally applied to the speaking of English. English seems rather to have a vocabulary of significance, but which such an ineffective grammar, it bears no signs of being a language, despite the formidable tool that the dictionary is.

Yet here today, while I have been trying to find an expedient way to communicate, to Aborigines for whom English is still only a foreigners set of bizarre and nonsensical words without any meaningful pattern, that there is way in which it is possible to use the English words, and a semblance of an English type grammar pattern, within real meaning, I am pleasantly reminded of the fact that it is the use of English by Indians, which I have had as a good role model since around the age of five, in which I know it is possible for Aborigines to learn a higher standard of English usage than most Aborigines have yet been able to access.

Indigenous Australian languages have a specific feature which is, apparently, linguistically unique, but I suspect Qur’anic Arabic is not dissimilar. I have yet to learn what I need of Sanscrit to provide any commentary therein, yet anticipate one day learning it is well enabled to transmit real communication so readily as an Aboriginal language is able. In our languages, sentences can be endlessly long. This is enabled by how all words are defined as being either subject or object, either verb or noun, adjective or adverb, or of, as the linguists say, being ergative, nomative, or plural, that is, in either a transitive or intransitive form. The distinction is only by a set of suffixes, and the languages, of which ninety six are still spoken, are so versatile that changes are possible in the middle of pronouncing a word, in respect of whether it will need have one suffix or another, depending upon what rings true. The suffixes are described by linguists with all the usual jargon of European languages, but in reality the distinction, is naming of who is the causal contributor to what is being named. The causality exists in the speaker, the listener, or in everybody, and I guess that the linguists who fail to comprehend that, might as well just continue failing to face how they have been doing our culture a disservice by trying to apply all their jargon and basic English grammar terms. The essence of our languages is that we are always using speech to prove what is real, and believe that if we speak we are singing what we speak of into existing in the world. So we hold great fear of telling lies. We also believe that if we name a thing, then we are owning a degree of responsibility for that thing existing. Therefore, there are some English words which have no place in our world, such as the word very “to decide”, since far be it from us to have decided anything. Our culture has no secular aspect.

We are living a world in agony of witnessing our families being forced to say what should never have become. So many of us today are bereft of our cultural origins, and among are those who have begun to say openly what the real history is of the invasion of our country. Those losing our traditions of storytelling, in which we know what not to say, and who are angry about the past, and the denial of our race, and the denial by the British of what they have done to us, are saying words for the rape of our culture, our land, and our women and children. Clearly we have new etiquettes corresponding with English usage, in which often enough the sentence does itself, and the dictionary is what did the words, if not God, or everybody. And so we are beginning to say it, but it is only those among us, already so Anglicised, that they have forgotten why not to be who says the words of what has happened to us, who are beginning to tell the real history of the invasion and colonisation of our land by the British. We who are beginning to research the historic records, and find out, that the British often knew exactly what they were attempting to condition us into, belong within a genealogically bound pattern, in which we cannot say what we are saying without accepting full accountability through the animal kingdom.

When the large earth quake happened under the Indian ocean, and that great Tsunami swept over much of the Asian shores, something happened inside me, and I wept in compassion for all the families who were unable to perform their rituals of bereavement. Yet I wanted to communicate to everybody who feared for what will become of their loved ones, without family to remind the spirits of the dead about what being human really is. I wanted to communicate not to worry too much, because we have survived, we are surviving, and we will always survive, and in the end, it did not matter that our spirit is blamed with the entirety of all that is wrong in existence, because we live. We live because we Aborigines have learned in our essential core that blaming costs more than accepting being wrongly blamed. This is our way, and by our experience, survival of humanity cannot be denied.

So today I am reading this book called “One City” and I am surprised at the simplicity of contemplation it is proving. The Indian man in the story, is embarrassed because he knows that perhaps other persons have imagined he might have a romantic interest in his female neighbour, when he himself knows that she is just not his type; and yet he finds himself unable to say no to her. The Scottish author is painfully unconscious of the potentially large slight to Indians which he writes, but is very overtly conscious of how rude Scotland seems to an Indian.

Earlier, the book spoke about how the Indian man was trying to explain to his Scottish work colleagues, that if he became involved in the Indian community, perhaps he might only to expected to marry. He advises that The Times of India has its marriage supplement, with columns just for doctors, and the Scottish people think it is all a big joke, but he cannot find it funny, while the Scotts assume he will eventually get the joke. Now with my head already wrapped up in inter-cultural communication processes and practises, and contemplation of how to make English language more accessible without undermining traditional Aboriginal language’s etiquettes (you may note that us Aussies already have a few clear English usage suffixes that denote whether or not a word is subject or object, whether it is the doer, or being done, and by whom is it being done: “ies” everybody does; “o” does itself; “a” the speaker is doing; and then there are variations in which the speaker is self acknowledging being a causal part of what is being spoken, but is also covering up that fact, and the compatible “owies” etc.), it occurred to me suddenly, that perhaps if what I am reading is true, and that it is a far more matter of fact practise in India, for a person to be promoted as available for marriage, that perhaps I may well take that exact advise as has been given for me in a number of recent contexts, and I sink into that bird brained embarrassed torment all the more.

Then I remembered that I have been sent the introductory e-mails for an Indian internet social inter-face free software programme, and have even made the appropriate registrations. So I began to, in a most unsettling and bizarre manner, contemplate what I might say about myself. Do you believe me, that this is the result?

*****

Now I have not yet been very fruitful in all these English words, with promoting my more positive attributes, perhaps. Or even in fact in explaining what the bizarre thing was which happened to me. So let me start again.

This morning I dreamed that I need to read a good Scottish story today. I found one, and read in it, about an Indian man living in Edinburgh, who is contemplating how odd it is to an Indian, that the Scottish find the practise of promoting oneself as available for marriage through the news media, as funny.

The book also mentioned how dishonest English usage usually can be, but that it is not so in India.

Once, many years ago now, but actually only as many as nine, I once was joking to a temporary acquaintance in the next door neighbour of my mother, who was contemplating putting an advertisement in the personal column of a local news paper, promoting herself as available for male attention from the right man, that if it were to happen that I ever put such an advertisement in any place, I would only be able to make it sound just too bad. My joke got a little out of hand on that occasion, and of course I never acted upon it. What could I have possibly said: “unbefitting poverty struck single mother seeks the all best eligible batchelors to compete for her”? No joke really, yet with my situation even worse today than it was then, (though I am quite befitting to the doctors column these days, and merely lacking any suitable dowry beyond that I own in the Dreamtime), the humour remains, that I find no way to promote my situation in its real sanctity.

So today, as I am reading my Scottish story, it occurred to me, already at page 39, that perhaps, in light of these three pieces of information, I could write something entertaining for the Indian internet site I have been sent an introductory e-mail for, and then a bizarre thing happened within my comprehension.

Normally, as I have written at the start, when I first contemplate what words I may begin a piece of writing with, the first sets of words which come into my mind, form a constant stable base to work from with the whole written piece.

Yet today, something quite bizarre began to happen! Every time I first formed a sentence in my brain chemistry, it suddenly seemed too badly wrong to be able to put to any good use. This process went on and on, from the time I put a good Scottish story down at page 39, while I went into the kitchen and prepared myself some besan, mixed with garlic, avocado oil, tahina, a little table salt, and hot water, and ate a portion of it. But now that I am writing, the biochemical neurological processes, that could be called “believing that I am becoming able to decide what I might be able to write”, are subsiding, because I am more positive in the fact of being in submission while my fingers are working these keys on the type pad of my lap top. With that husband who works through me in my dreams, but whom is no way yet possibly able to materially provide for me, to thank for this.

So tell me, is it that I need an Indian Husband, or to know why Besan is called Besan?

*****

I have a dream. We are many and a few. We travel by foot and we camp, and we are travelling from east to west, by an unknown route. Perhaps it is that our destination is unknown also.

In fact we wait high in the mountains for many years while Jesus is growing up. When we reach our destination we are recognised.

*****

The author of this work is a founding shareholder of the company named a.c.n. 123212671 pty. ltd. We are Shari’ah compliant Christian Aborigines. If you ever need to, you can contact her by writing to the company, who owns the copyright on this work, at PO Box 6113, Fairfield, QLD 4103; or, you can google any of my bizarre and out of context words sitting in the internet under the name “curaezipirid”; or, you can bide your own time waiting in prayer that the husband who finds me one day, will not take too long about himself. The company will accept donations of alms for the purpose of working towards normalising Aboriginal cultural values within English speech effects, initially through enabling improvements in literacy among Australian Aboriginal populations who are also sustaining belief in Jesus. I have faith that eventually your donations, in money, kind, or prayer, will also be recognisable through us in Mecca for being Zakat. Zakat being the type of donations which keep the rest of one’s money clear of bad majic tricks, which I am able to do away with, despite being unmarried, and with much gratitude owing by all to my sons, as well as the silent company directors, and that eventually inevitable husband.

*****

In the final six pages of the good Scottish story, the Indian man forges that he has a photograph of a prospective Indian wife, so as to avoid the awkwardness of his female neighbour’s attentions. The neighbour is offended, but takes it in her stride, and desists in part from her attentions, but then asks him if he would like to drive with her in her car again. He says yes, and realises in himself that he has been missing her. At the end of the story he fabricates an even larger forgery about the phantom prospective wife, who seems to now have gone for a walk and been eaten by tigers.

Now, on one hand, the story is an insult to the sensibilities of an Indian in Scotland, because it assumed that he would deny his own acculturation so far as the story describes.

Yet perhaps it is simply that the Scots are not biologically predisposed to be so accountable for their pride as others of the human species are accustomed to. Their pride, and the pride of all the English speaking, invading world, is no more than the pride of feeling self righteous in knowing that anybody who came into their own land would certainly eventually learn to love their own way. The martyrdom of the British Isles need not be dishonoured in order to alleviate ourselves from its shackles. When we understand their invading, as a begging of us to love their own lands, it is simply more palatable to speak in English words.

And so feeling more hopeful now, than I had earlier in the day, all I will say about my own prospects for marriage, is that he will never again be one of those who is not fully conscious by nature of all the rungs of Jacob’s ladder, known as they are also known to modern science, as seven genetic markers of ancestry, which can be either switched off, or switched on. Having all seven genetic markers available to the mind, whether by racial intermarriage, or by Aboriginal Australian ancestry, and also having all seven markers switched on, which is enabled only through maintaining the older cultural traditions, of initiation, of establishing perfect marriage bonds and maintaining all social negotiations within awareness of how we best are able to interact with one another, and of being obedient to religious laws, is a state of mind which is hard to maintain but worth the effort, and marks a person as being in the full radiance of God’s eternal light.

It is not my intention to be insulting to anybody reading. It need not feel insulting to who is reading this. It is my observation, that at the highest rung of Jacob’s ladder, counting the lowest as a matter of being fully accountable for our pride, thus at the top being fully accountable for every matter of hate, and all the colours of the rainbow being accounted for in between orange and red, not all of humanity is able to sustain constant clarity of mind, within a consistent story, while also fully conscious of the total detail of how human beings are actualising hate; and the fact of the matter is, that I do not want to be the wife of a husband whom I am sharper than in accountability. Therefore, whoever he may be, he will certainly need to understand how it is that here, in our land, this Australian continent, we are fully immersed constantly, in the world in which, first Islam began reconciling with Indigenous Animist belief, and now also, Christianity with both. In Arrerente country, around Alice Springs, we even have a footprint in the solid rock of a river bed made by Jesus himself. Now because that fact, holds together the sanity of many believers, whose love for the Earth is the strongest I know of, I guess that it would be quite wrong of me to promote myself as available as a wife, to any man other than who can comprehend how and why it is realistic to believe that we have Jesus’s own footprint here in the rocks of Australia.

Thus, now, having forged for myself, a good enough self promotion, I think I ought to retire this pen for the evening. After all, to evaluate all the possible potential uses of newspaper personal columns, and, perhaps other more confidential, matchmaking services, is really quite beyond the scope of this immediate day’s work writing. Yet finishing a ‘readers report’ of the Scottish stories I am reading, for a university course, ought to be still within the scope of my daily labour, now having expressed enough to feel comfortably able to turn down my normal level of attenuation, into my lecturer’s capable level of acknowledgment, with all her quibbles as to the propriety of proper English, to my silent surety that we Aborigines now also own the correct genealogy to own excellence in scholarship of texts.

I hope now, that all the pre-eminent, exceptionally worthy, eligible prospective husbands, named a Dr. Krishnawmorthy, will be able to settle down into the general backdrop of understanding I have gained, about who is holding who to fault for what, between the likes of the Theosopical Society, with its headquarters branch there in India, and a remote Australian outpost of the Gurdjieff Society, at which some bloke called Bob, may or may not be anybody’s uncle, but sure as eggs owes a few bob, since there is much wealth amassed upon assuming that my own placing of a self promoting advertisement, into a public context, is tantamount to full blown acts of physical prostitution. Far be it from I to deny Babylon’s song and that it also belongs.