Another like the Other

The accumulation of capital

Is dependently fixed upon

Communication prevention

Between indigenous and refugee stations

While to reconcile national salvation

Each place depends upon

Use of money belong

To love of Earth strong

Let these words sing money’s song

For tired I am of

Awakening in Dreams of

The purses which

Build only delusion

While I have seen

Reality blessed

And my message of this

By heart’s nature

A shape shifter

Might my changes make

None other but the disenfranchised

Rich

For into the shape of a coin

Have my heart and spirit toiled

Gears well oiled

Learned by bacterial foils

To shift

If only I can avoid

Money’s lazing drift

Of working to earn what

We had no real need of but

When the work the Earth needs of us

Was being ignored

So for money that implores

Us to work for no more

Than to save her the Earth

Know we can buy of

No more than to sustain of

The conscience within which

To reforest the planet

Start immediate

Feed all its people

Educate the masses of its

Forgone conclusions

That this poem is

Not written to get rich

For by money yet

Will love be well

When truth proves this I tell

The money is fell

For by its

Dreams of flora and fauna

And the soil’s bacteria

Will the ants have you

Unless by money

You buy only

What saves Earth’s trees too

Tonight I noticed

The disturbing fact

For the first time that that

I see the pornographers

Who frequent the internet

And particularly those

With the absurdly supposed

Concept that children are sexy

Have a preference in their spam

For a certain sort of a tag

And parenting is among that they prefer

A fact which is inimical

With that of my own psychological

Research in the arena of

What makes any child at risk

Since

One of the strongest factors

Is not parental negligence

But rather a parent

Whom was not themself protected

And thereby can be caused

To overly fear of the results

Of being spammed

By pornographers

 Hate the child haters to hell with me if it makes you feel any better

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This is a news media sort of piece of writing, that I wrote in response to the general advocacy which was being given in the media for Paris Hilton’s release from the prison of gaol, into the prison of an anklet, over the weekend; but before her re-imprisonment. 

Of her re-imprisonment what I want here to add is that it is my constant regard that the methodology of the paparazzi is cruelty, and that Paris Hilton herself may well have been served a good turn by both Sheriff Lee Baca, and  the Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Michael Sauer.  The first mentioned for letting his officers release her, and in that release identifying her health state, as is mindful of many so very famous persons.  The second mentioned is whom has sought to rightfully prove that being famous, and even being abused by the media, is no excuse for criminal behavior, and in such it will most certainly be Paris Hilton whom benefits from the lesson in the long run, since hers are the tears shed openly and shamelessly within the media spectacle. 

The original article I wrote has been edited now twice, with obvious additions to the timing made in italics. Depending upon which of my weblogs you are reading it in, it may or may not be in the most recent draft, and may or may not reflect well enough when I actually originally first responded to the popular media coverage in Australia.  But to prove myself, the true timing is still within a copy I posted.. 

Read on only if you dare, because the article is named:  

If I were Paris Hilton . . . 

Well for one, I might like to keep the spelling as Perez, as I myself saw it only recently.  Actually I rather liked her better once I had seen that spelling, for some odd, but very Australian sort of reason. 

However, that is not what I was first intending to write, but before I tell that, I ought to first also tell that, be it not mine to wish Paris-Perez into any grand Bear Hug by night.  Since what is my first and most principal like want for her, is to truly befriend Bindi Irwin.   

Now this may take some explaining, and I can, so therefore will I try. 

Very recently both Paris Hilton and Bindi Irwin have been featuring large on Australian Television.  And what is beginning to manifest in at least my mind, but that I suspect also of very many Australians, is the contrast between the Perez style of mixing Australian method of learning, with an American, and the Irwin style. 

Paris Hilton has recently been in Australia, brought here by John Singleton.  But with John Singleton’s well renown reputation, we Aussies barely raised an eyebrow, and only suppose that Mr Singleton is just being very, well, just very, very greedy that is. 

While also it is still recent that we all bear with the death of Bindi Irwin’s, and Bob’s father.  A man whose fame in our eyes was a bit of an amusing spectacle, and whom we rarely ever acknowledged liking, that is, until he died and our whole country mourned his passing with open tears.  “Way to got out, mate, you did yourself a beauty”, might be our inner regard for his worth amid our tears. 

But there now, is Terri Irwin, up there in front of our eyes, showing us an American Mom’s approach to the lesson in her dearly departed former husband’s death, for her daughter’s lesson.  Now even being tourism ambassadors for Australia.  Why the ‘but’, you might well ask.  That but is because, but, but, but why, Terri, WHY, are you being so able in such stable cool while Bindi is doing such an AMAZING job up there of the face of us. 

You see, as for the rest of us Aussie mothers, why, we’d just be far too darn terrified of what we then might be needing to be forgiving of in our child.  However, we are all very carefully observant of Terri.  The truth of the matter is because not one of us ever believed that a man like Steveo could have chosen to be the mother of his children, any but the best of American.  The Irwin family fathership well proven among us, we need watch carefully for a full ratification of what we have been previously missing about how Americans are so well adept at raising children. 

In our way, a child’s pride, is quite markedly dismembered, at every and any turn.  To such an extent that if any of us rise up head and shoulders above the crowd, first we are repeatedly pulled back down, and then eventually, only perhaps after the age of about forty, get begrudgingly acknowledged as not ever having been trying to become famous, but rather if it is that fame arrived for us, it was because we were imposed upon by the social conditions to do the fame thing. 

Our culture is harsh, but itself famous for never enabling any tall poppy.  While we see of the Americans that many are enabled up there as big people.  Well, actually our mob, (mob is the collective pronoun for kangaroos – and as kangaroo is my totem among Indigenous Australia, a mob we are), are really, and veritably, quite as big as any American.  Yet expectant of no fame or money from the largeness of us.  Being dragged down all the time, one gradually during childhood recognizes why it is that fame just ain’t what we really were ever wanting.  As for money, its trick is just really quite obvious to even a child. 

Remember that we are a people invaded by Europeans for a few less years than Indigenous America is.  But were earlier imposed upon by Chinese whose arrival is in the archaeological record as having been only one hundred and fifty years before the Europeans.  Yet our people recognize a far longer influence of Chinese culture among us, and also that of the Indian subcontinent.  When you look to our closest neighbours, in places like Bali and Dili, the cultural influences we share with the world are quite obvious really.  In fact, the most significant of has long enough already been Islam. 

Islam’s influence upon our Indigenous cultural base is possibly about eight hundred years old by now.  We have men among our Aboriginal community whom dream in reciting Qur’an in Arabic.  Another I have met Dreams of being enabled to play guitar so well as he can, by other older dreams of playing instruments indigenous to Persia: and he is a colour blind man.  But most especially important to us, is that our song cycles are well already adapted to the various Surah of Qur’an which already had a tale in our own culture and place.  The Yolgnu Rom ceremonies being the best renown of examples of. 

Another fact of the influence Islam has long had upon us, but which is less renown, is that when we let Muslims upon our country, and in the very ritualized forms of Jihad we engaged in, (our battles are always very staged – though never any less real, or less felt, for being staged – only slightly more predictable in outcome), we had a sort of agreement constantly between those already converted and those not yet converted. 

The agreement was that we would retain a portion of Australian territory which need not convert, just in case we were the culture from among whom might arise the child whom first finds that Islam is the only way, from a basis of having no modern Islamic education.  That portion is knowable as east of the red centre and south of the border with Queensland.  Including where my own family are from. 

But having said that, I must also tell that today in Hijab I dwell.  Most of the time at any rate, and always am I noticing when my appearance finds way out of this shell.  A shell in which it comes to me now to tell.  I recently also saw upon television, Paris Hilton visiting a Pakistani Muslim family for the day, and being a housewife; and in memory of which, I must say, “Paris, Honey, you looked glorious in the black and white; are real rare American beauty.” 

What I am here in this writing, conspiring to tell, is that I perceive what is happening, is that Paris Hilton is manifesting one variety of a cultural combination between American and Australian, whilst the Irwins are manifesting that other variety.  I know that in America there are at least two such distinct ways, if not four, and held very distinct.  But here in Australia, the distinctions are not a part of our open culture.  Instead we hold open to children our Animal identifications.  So what is happening in many media contexts, in relation to the blending of the Australian and the American rites of passage into adulthood, is a really very solidly happening thing in which every mother need be paying all self decent attention. 

So then, here from an Australian perspective, I might make a little commentary for the Amerian audience.  Perhaps only mentioning Paris Hilton and Bindi Irwin, as two persons whose life story shows us a teaching story for what works in such cultural blending. 

In Paris’s situation, this morning on breakfast television, we here in Australia are in mourning for her.  We all are in total support of the Sheriffs having sent her home for medical reasons.  And in fact, honey, if you happen to google your name today, I must tell you that if I were you Paris, as well as befriending Bindi, I would be keeping my self out of the media for the whole forty days, and keeping all the pet faeces your place might have, and then at the forty first day, I would dress the faeces as though a nice brunch for the media, and place under each serve of, a polite note stating: “Thankyou for letting the world know I have a medical condition.” 

This is factually belying the American standard of debasement of poorly behaved children, I know.  But in the case of Paris, if it were true that she has been exemplifying a combination of Australian culture and American, then it had already been let go too far. 

We Australians, within the Indigenous belief system, all still today believe that we will one day turn into an animal, or a plant, or any other natural form of living giving matter.  In fact, for every one of us, our belief in our self, is cornered by certain blessing upon us as children of knowing who our animal is.  Our pride is wholly and soul-ly consolidated in such.  Especially, in fact, amongst the best of us.  Thereby explaining truly how it can be that we pull down each other’s pride so frequently.  Any person whom repeatedly pops back up as famous, is clearly an example of a very self disciplined mind. 

That is why, in the case of a person like Paris, we all regard that the situation was long already gone too far.  She is, after all, substantially older than Bindi.  Do I here belie my own situation, at nearly thirty nine, not yet in real adulthood, despite my every effort, and my three sons, in that direction.  That’s OK, I am an accountable person, and nobody else need bear any shame in my world for any fact of my existing. My mention here of myself certainly underlines the need for what is worthy of the American tradition to be applied, but not without due consideration of the constant application of the Australian system.  After all, being still regarded as a child, by my own mob, at 39, and despite motherhood well established, surely there is something wrong in this situation that I need mention myself at all.  Therefore let me be only just a little less than usually self indulgent in mention of my own self here.  

What is wrong is not with my motherhood though, I must emphasise to the extreme, which is perhaps why I mention myself at all.  It is that the whole way any culture contains and sustains maternal daughter relations is of a true very close regard in myself, having grown up with a major fault in such relations, but one without traceable cause, in that it is not the fault of either my mother or myself.  Of my grown up and culpable self, even that is not truly yet in adulthood, let me say that the Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal community in the Northern Territory mostly own my culpabilities, that is except for the parts owned and being held accountable, within the more wide Ummah that is all Islam, inclusive of those within other Religious affiliations, but whom believe in truth in Allah and the last prophet.  My accountability is at this stage already so extreme that it is too difficult to imagine any man actively able to Husband me, and yet one will one day most certainly.  He will additionally have the effect of enlargement my degree of culpability in every direction.  So then here, perhaps you can adequately conceptualise why my own story bears relation upon my observations of American mothers, in relation with their daughters.  I know my own pride gone too far, only too well, in fact.  The reality that will strike me is surely that most of my writing is not about the sort of things any child should write about.  

To that effect might I also here mention another slight difference between Australian and American tradition.  In our Australian world the whole culture gravitates around women’s work in consolidating Kinship, as a series of stable marriage relations, which then determine every other possible social relation.  We have a few precise rules.  In fact, while most are quite subtle, it is that every possible social interaction has strictly managed, and heavily sanctioned, rules of what is the factual possibility.  Each person has a ‘skin’ name, which addresses both the totem animal believed in, as the culture is basically Animist, but also the name addresses the Human potential and possibility.  For example, my skin name is that I am a Nungarrayi, and that name, if it were to be translated into Hebrew, would translate as Rivaq, that is Rebecca, which is also the name upon my birth certificate which my father accurately gave.  Many Australians without Indigenous culture and language, carry a generic nickname which has the same function as a ’skin’ name.  Or their birth name has a specific ending added to it, which denotes a certain social function, status, and ability.  Being a Nungarrayi might only be the same as being a Bec.  Being a Nungarrayi also determines my song, my mind, and names the ley line of my birth and grave.  

As a Nungarrayi, these are the most strict rules I am established within, of belief that life can be no different.  Every male whom is a Jangala I must regard as a Husband.  That is whether we actually ever marry or not, and we will be gradually accustomed to treat each other as Husband and wife through all stages of childhood, to the extent that we really truly find our minds fearing each other very much, because the embarrassment of realizing each other as though in a sexual relation, we actually not yet if ever, is so very huge, especially in the mind of any child.  Given that fact, such childhood relations are clearly monitored to a high degree of social involvement and concern.  No child finds their feet in society without everybody knowing every embarrasing detail.  Well, that is my experience, but I expect that I am in the extreme end of the Australian way, and that many other Australians far better protect their children than my mother was enabled to.  What has happened to myself puts me in a position of being able to consider the American system in how it is stronger than the Australian, but also being able to find what feels bereft from the American for a person like myself, that is what the strength in the Australian system is which has protected me truthfully.   

If I meet a Jungarrayi, whom is a brother to me, I must treat him as well as my own son.  He would also be the only male allowed to ever hit me, and that he could only if I ever by accident attend upon any perception of any sexual interaction among any persons, but whilst in his near vicinity.  If he and I were to engage ourselves in any sexual interaction, we would become permanently austracised by our whole community.  I am also even today expected to austracise any person whom has engaged in any sexual activity with a person whom is the same ’skin’ as their own self, which is truly the hard call for all of us.

Then there is any male whom might be a son-in-law to me, or my brother be his sister’s son-in-law, (these relations being determined within a presupposition that I will marry only a Jangala man), and we must at all times be in total avoidance of one another.  We might become to live in good respectful closely bound blood relationship, but will never directly address each other.  If it happens that we were to engage in sexual activity, we would be ritually speared to death, within traditional culture.  Socially distrusted and openly disliked and discouraged within mainstream society.  I am encouraged to hate a son-in-law sort, so much that I can not even remember his name.  But another girl who is a sister to him, is whom I will ever look towards for any assistance I require in fitting in.  Additionally my own brothers might look to him as whom performs that actual cutting in any initiations. 

That is inclusive of all of the male initiations: from circumcisions and subincisions; through ritual scarification also of the chest; to a tooth being knocked out.  The people whom I am mainly affiliated with are those with the subincision as the main entry into manhood which might enable marriage, yet I also have immediate affiliations with people whom scar men’s chests, and those whom knock out a boy’s tooth.  If I had not these personal relationships, in our culture, I am forbidden from ever even mentioning that such facts exist. Actually there is usually posed a second best, or even third best category of marriageable man, that is, for me, if no Jangala were yet available, or just in case he might not want me.  Perhaps if I had associated too much in conversation with a son-in-law, for example, or a brother had ever had cause to hit me, then my marriablity is reduced and maybe I might not be good enough for a Jangala.  But as I am born to a mother who is eaglehawk by birth, like her mother, and hers before, it is always better for my husband to be a crow, and I become aligned as a part of the crow family, only once I am my self so made by a crow man. 

Our culture sustains constant and consistent evidence of maternal lineage distinct from, and woven in among, the men’s work of sustaining the story lines by patri-lineal clan allegiances.  My children should all be born a Jampidjimba or a Nampidjimba, and theirs is the story of Tiddalik, the frog who drank all the water in the whole world.  So that my three sons are actually two Jungarrayis and one Jakamara, whose story is alike to the Odessy, is somewhat of a matter of big shame for my own story.  And in that we might just pretend that my sons are Jampidjimbas, that is, until they are becoming ready themselves to enter adulthood, and can identify their true nature all by themselves. 

These are just the bare bones of the whole of any Kinship teaching, as we here in Australia, are taught it as children. Now what I can see there on TV of America, belies a different form of the management of pride.  And it is with wonderment that I admire Terri Irwin letting Bindi be so bold, and with sorrow that I am noticing here on television this morning, that Paris Hilton really had the medical condition which many had only supposed she was in a pretence of having. 

But, let me tell you this about that situation with Paris Hilton.  We Australians, whom never did like her famousness that much, and found it all quite a bit boring really, are this morning, making overt efforts in our most populous media, to be more respectful of her, whilst also observing in shock, that Americans are not.  That is, seemingly not able to believe that she is not in good self knowledge of how she is generally perceived.  Perhaps it is just a show of not believing in her paucity of ablity to consciously regard her self as though removed.  This then presents another fact of the difference between us. 

In our way, our Indigenous Australian culture, if we have a Dream, then that is what is us.  Nothing is about us if ever we Dream it, but it is us. So then here formally, if it might happen to be indeed that Paris Hilton’s medical condition, was only ever the result of a blending of cultures, I will formally congratulate her, in having been made public. For what I can see is that she is herself in truth and in deed.  For our way is to know that if we can not first believe in our self, then how ever will we believe in God, (especially when we name Him Allah).  Paris Hilton’s name is quite as exactly appropriate to her, as mine is to me, and as in fact has Bindi been named.  (I am sure that Terri Irwin will agree that giving birth was no worse than treading upon a grass seed sort of a bindi.)  For in our Australian Dream, what Paris Hilton might be, within an Earth worshiping, nature driven, culture, is no more than the seedling well planted, of a giant redwood to be, perhaps, though maybe more like a Silky Oak.  A tree that is as though a hotel, in whose branches, many and various visitors pass through if you please.  All the beauty in the birds, dropping feathers and nesting, the chirps of their insect friends, and the tree climbing animals, who love all that cover of her leaves. 

However, that is not what I wrote this report to this morning’s media for.  In fact rather it is that I had an idea.  The perhaps if Paris Hilton, befriended Bindi Irwin, that there might arise a good joke, and let me not be who tells that it has any basis in truth.  But this week Bindi is to meet with the Dalai Lama.  So to be sure, it will be Paris who first tells it, I might just gently note, that upon the Queensland Sunshine coast, there could even eventuate acts of open warfare in consequence of the Dalai Lama’s visit, because of the degree to which a faction among organised crime, had been holding the Tibeteans above Indigenous Australians, as worth in Religious belief.  Knowing us Australians, that is, although a likely unseemly outcome, also the matter of a few good jokes, of course. 

Best me then finish this now sooner than later, with expressing that my true real regard is my every expression in this.  A thankyou every person mentioned for handling being the butt of a big Aussie joke, (if you get it yet) and I do truly hope, that Paris gets well soon, Bindi learns true blue the lesson Australian through and through, Peace arrives at Earth, and the American journalist who appeared this morning deriding Paris Hilton upon Australian television, gets a great and giant kick up the butt. 

And see here that I no more than provide for Miss Hilton, a stable consolidated belief in herself as a very decent person, deserving indeed of all that large wealth, in some form or another, eventually, for what the money is worth.  She ought really be letting that monetary wealth drive her better than she has been. 

Here I am adding in a late paragraph, upon the few days later scenario, in which Paris is re-admitted to prison.  Could it be, perhaps, in light of the whole scenario we witness unfolding, that Ms Hilton’s folks have given her that rude shock she needed?  Perhaps it was in the form of the pornography in which she stars becoming suddenly more prevalent, not with her imprisonment, but rather here in Australia, timed in with her release, before re-imprisonment.  Perhaps it is the telling of her in the outcome which we all were waiting for.  What is it that the porn flicks show?  They are on network television late at night here in Australia, in advertising to enabled purchase of a veiwing of through making a phone call on the mobile (cell phone).  Alongside hilarious ads using a joke about addiction portraying a pole dancing stripper in an advertisement for a Halal food outlet.  Ads that make us Aussies believe that the Modern Muslim Ummah of Arabic orientation is, at last, getting us.  But the point here I want to make, is that perhaps, just perhaps, if Paris Hilton’s family have been clever, they did a set up through the Justice department, so that it was their own daughter whom an example was made of.  That tough love works don’t you know.  Pride stings, but what is the lesson we must all take from the way in which Paris Hilton has been abused by the media?

For there is one other last aspect, of our Australian cultural belief, which I had not yet mentioned.  Yet one in which Paris can only be, held in our best regard. We believe that every Dream, and every single thing that might cross the mind, of any person and in ever time, has a basis in the world of reality, of having once before or in future happened truly.  So therefore, if no man can find that the past had it, a person somewhere someday, must take it that Dream into their own future.  Yet of Dreams can we impart, they are not always what they seem at the start.  For the worst of, that any child every could have been harmed, are those known for the wrongdoing causal to, being the cause of any and every fall from the paradise of innocence. 

Yet need such Dreams never have, been enacted, exactly as first read? The answer must always be “obviously not” and those whom instead have supposed their need is only to force such dreams upon others, are obviously wrong in that, because any dream of criminality, is by definition a series of wrongfully assembled images, in which, either that most, or that least, pleasant of the aspects of, can be delayed until the whole manifests without criminality.  For example, if once you Dream a dream, and it has any criminal part, then if that image, of any criminal intent, should have any recognizable aspect, as having once before belonged in another place, why then that part of that dream is knowable, as not needing to be in future again enacted, and so altering the entire Dream, usually right out of any criminality. 

These are long sentences that I have just here spelt out our law with.  Yet to my own name will I take it, that never was I taught, for in the invading culture were no such lessons available to me, and I was distinctly keep apart from other Australian Aborigines; but rather instead did I find that such is true, only by trial and error.  So therefore have the right to teach of.  And within its lesson is that I believe, Paris Hilton is taking upon her own self, a set of our collectively owned Dreams, in which there are many behaviours which not many would want the ill of.  In Australia, the fact that not many could want to be her, is what makes her honourable to us, but in that, if only she can accept herself as she is.

Yet that she can with dignity, is that in her we all will believe, that she need not suffer to in criminality as a permanently scarring identification.  Nor need any other person for the prevention of that her fall might not be to. 

So if I were Paris Hilton, I’d want to meet Bindi Irwin, and I would believe, in the trees, and try to avoid any criminality.  Congratulations to her, if this she sees.    

Original writing copyright June 2007 to ANungarrayididitdotCopas, for the author, Rebekah Marker, owned in common by every shareholder of A.C.N. 123 212 671 PTY LTD.  The copyright may be shared with any person whose use of is Not-For-Profit, within a fifty year financial cycle time frame, and whose use changes neither the authors meaning, or any other implication made by use of the names of the characters mentioned. 

Attend the Rule of Straight no Fool 

Their own belief

The drug using quarter

Forebade my truth

When trying to include me

Because of a Husband’s story

And accused me

Of not being able

To sustain upon the table

And follow through in

Believing

What there is to

Believe in

But when

Their own minds were to

Follow the lie among

Their own outcome

To find this song

While my belief sustained strong

Was

That those words in our heads

From mutually shared marijhuana beds

Were in dialogue real

Substantiated reference

To a real argument between

Me and an actual

But not present

Acquaintance unseen

That when it registered

In me

Time to resign from our line

It was that I resigned

From being causal to

The words we were experiencing

In every body’s mind

Our then fully acknowledged collective time

Took dispute with me to find

That perhaps it was me who was not real

On the basis that

Only stoned perhaps

Do many not realise the fear

Is truly real

Yet my own mind clear

That when uncertain

Of content described

In the words in mind

Of the collectively observed dialogues find

As to the becoming of

Substantiated in time

What at

Might not be for many a year

Therefore best I cease to enact its facts here

Since no idea in mind in this time

Can be close enough to near

The undercurrents of those years

To be able to realise

The consequences of my facts

So did I cease to do at

But into my gap

Stepped another who at

Might in fact

Have been that

My own lie at

Was that I had more certainty at

The full dialogue

Than any of the rest of

Who knew those words in mind so strong

That kafr mine to swallow

And that which is not to follow

For its self was controlled by

That fear in me of loosing the dialogue’s key

But of what is at stake here

Bear with my conscience clear

For my own dialogue was with a kaffir

While whom did cause that fellow

Was in fact years into the future

Yet to find its farrow

In the company of

The kaffir of my kafr of course

But know you this from me

That in the dialogues key

Is the pattern of cannabis attended

So now let me

The dialogue amended

From that time then

To now nearly four years

Into the past

That this need pass

Seems to be

Its causality

Since my own mind sustains

Only that possibility

Of how this became

In the activity game

Of running the smoke

Out through my liver

Before dropping down a level

Of consciousness to dwell

Is what I always knew to be mine

The way through cannabis find

Out of that dialogue terrible

With a then former acquaintance formidable

But now after realisable

Is who is truly the other

A real man and his kafir lover

And neither I nor the man

Did cause that the plan

Of the dialogue

But of what we fear of each other

Is found to be that our kafr

In what that first kaffir known

Argues at as though real

So my refusal

To then continue

Based only in then his determination

To disprove me

The whole cycle began with

So go on indeed

Your own mind and feed

The insane seen

Of cannabis greed

About what was this argument

Ah about Kinship it started

None but that one which

Ever lives

Directly in bodily need

Can I here now continue

In the safety true

Of not sitting right near to

One who would me abuse

Only so as to then prove

Or so they had planned to

Until run away I had to

From the fuck they wanted through

Win what any police knew

So of my kaffir made lesson

In its acquaintance

I this in forgive will

Though no guaranteed of the next still

And thereafter

Who else could it be

To win over me

Do try the same fellow please

Be who absorb

Your detoxing need

If indeed

You followed this seed

As though sprouted indeed

More than the oil lubricating

Many machines

In the food industry cleaned

By orange peel chemical

Especially those of cheese

Manufacturing

So taking a swing

Perhaps this is why the wind

Might carry more front yard goats

Just in case of

Who forgets to believe

Being eaten in cheese

Cleaned out by his eminence

As I quote

Different the failure indeed

Is the dropping out of conversing

While still believing

In knowledge this relates to me truly

And the words in real life be

Of a dialogue consequential to life

That therefore can we

Remember that the whole topic’s key

Is Kinship real

Of the Ummah to believe

So not can I tell you

With whom I spoke

Not the kaffir but the man of who its folk

That I know later than that smoke

It was your sister

Who did to you

That Arthur is the story through

But I am not certain if true

For yet not all the evidence

Only quite enough that this through

Yet but that I ensured

The fact was unconscious you

And now in deeds done true

Find there is no reason to

Abide in its fear through

As though terror had any good cheer

For Kinship true is not queer

But that of social liasons

Conversations and relations

Sustaining of our health

And the key

How to

Is to be drug free

Through tradition real

The words we share in mind

Pictures postures and motion

Repeating shapes of notion

Have laws guiding

Respectful relating

So that in Kinship

Only accountably is hating

That mine is the old way please

It is far more suited to me

And know this the fact is

That my own home grown

Marijhuana had that

What would never have had

Me confused between

My husband to be

And a kaffir of he

Yet that the stuff we had was

Provided to me with police approval because

Of amphetamine in its growth absorption

And their plan has been

To force Australian Aboriginal children

And mothers and Husbands

To do that their kafr be 

And in full their methodology

So shocking that never its story

Yet this part is real

That for us whom learn too much

What their faces hide from us

Is that they try to force us

To fuck up

In bodily acts of
Incest they stuff

Up the arses of everyone

They can that none

Of us

Are less than fearing

The same conditions

Of holocaust

Is that causal to the will

To enter into apocalypse

By method of

Armageddon still

So over the hill I may be

For it is the way over

That has shown me this key

If

Of

Indigenous Australian drug use

Sam did

The American link

Ray relied upon

That an Uncle had

Temporarily lost its lid

The question is

How

Of course

Could I an Australian

Claim to know

My own

The horse

Because

Please fear this in me

That those whose way has been

To break with traditional kinship laws

Of our ancestry the best of course

Their Souls have fled their body

And sought another whose abidance will tolerate love

And most of those are Religious known

Whether Christian or Islamic or Animist

While the bodies for the trash heap of time

Are every whose minds

Try to refute their own part in

Whatever the play of

This game has been

Whether drugs or sodomy and

What ever the method of trashing is

Religious belief is what will protect the love that exists

So best that He who knew

And has sustained his own body true

To the law of whose score

His sexual liason is for

Might be enabled to follow for

To father is

Drug and lust free

His key

To have fully swallowed

The experience hollow

Of the sister brother relatable incest unlawful

While mine that of

What its consequence is

The facts of a confusal between

The past and tomorrow

Activity and reception

What did is done

Today won

And tomorrow another one

Salam

Is nine am in Australia

Too late in the day for

Professional American cybernet speculators

For this I claim to

Have sustained is

Being secreted through

A wanted white wife

Was never the black man’s strife

Nor the black mother

The white man’s cover

That a blockage through

This certainty in me

Police do the shoes are

On whose feet bar

The exploration

By who sees in reality

Of what station

The deal done for

Whose reel

Check in this web log for

What seemed unreal

Of Religion’s long feel

To be reality

For whom ever it may be

Knowing liking is having to have

And different from what to want

Is that love not like did this jaunt

But to want alone to work the point

Upon which every nation

Will fall to God’s Grace

In Eternity Djinn did the bridge in the first place

So to those who are really at war

Should peace not be provident for

But that it was not your

Peace to accuse for that

What did you expect

To what is bereft

The season give you for

The young to question this driven

My cause has striven

For its purpose winning

In Allah learning

My young yearning

That your weakness expose

How your disease might I depose

Caused to falter only by falling

To its own mother’s calling

But never expect

That again might I tell

Of the result well sought

In my own doing wrought

For forced

To undo it I was

Only by loss of love

Yet no loss from above

So stablizing  my brain

Chemistry plain

Needed no medication

Yet this to entertain

Instructed you me

As to what prevented

Your call from

Receiving and following

Deeds made in love

But if what prevents

Is that which caused

The preventative vent

To explore

Reason need your

For whom might not

When what in Allah

Is blockage forever for

To what can undo

The expectations so shoed

That Eternity’s hours

Can now more properly show out 

Commenced in our heads

And every who opposed

Will fund this its flow

For every desire true

Of wanting only to work through

Every fear of tomorrow

To know it was false to

Forget the labouring will to work

That will bring us all through

Salvations true

This post in my blog is by way of referring readers to the other posts I have made in this web log.  Gradually the most effective use of word press is being discovered by me in a trial and error sort of method, because my own mind really dislikes reading in the computer.  The original idea was to for only posting a significant essay, and keeping the rest quite seperate.  That original essay is distincly more normal than most of the rest of the posts, many of which perhaps might have been better in a whole new web log, but here it is, I am only one person after all. 

Hopefully this web log might have a use in getting my writing opened a bit more publicly than usual at present.  Though what is opening up is certainly not at all what it was begun with the intention of.  I write within the Indigenous Australian Story telling tradition, with a heavy influence of what English language demands, and while much of my writing has a sociological outlook, my tradition demands of me that I not step outside of the form of writing in which I am the number one object of my own story.  Yet also my work is heavily influenced within a certain form of Islam.  

This writing is not a fact of wanting to promote my own self, but a fact of our culture, that we may not express our self without whatever we express becoming OF ourself.  For that reason, Australians are very much inclined to always tear one another down, and so manifests what is called the Tall Poppy Syndrome.  Any Australian whose head rises above the crowd, is immediately assumed to be an evil to be avoided in every social context.  That is how we can be so trite about our politicians, and so openly self depreciating in our humour.  However, there arrives a time, in which . . .      

The posts I have made in this web log, in the sequence made in, are named in bold writing:

I guess this is a sort of introduction to myself . . .

A post given a fuller description of the odd web log over all title, which describes my username at word press, that is also used in the copyrighting of my writing as a signature of my authorship.

This is not guess but that I came here to publish at first.

This is the largest post, and contains an essay, and thereafter three poems, a small patch of an update in the sort of social commentary that the original essay contains, and then more poems. The original essay and the first three poems are the work I wanted to place into a Word Press Web Log. Before the essay starts there is a short bit of prose about the social environment in which I am writing.

Two poems not yet edited yet of worth in intelligence written to compliment the essay.

These are a reflection upon the immediate impact here around me of having put my essay into the internet, and need the reference from the previous post, to the immediate social conditions.

Three Poems Explaining The Inexplicable

These are three poems going straight to the heart of that which cuts it dry. But sort of oblique as my style is, but blunt as my way is, and humorous also. Better make fun of me than take life so seriously that it can not be lived. One of the poems I wrote this morning 10^th May 2007, having woken up Dreaming in the same cycle it tells. The other two were upon a piece of paper which was in my bag, and I had intended to type them up yesterday but had forgotten to. Of those two, one had been written that day, and the other on the day before, when I first began this web log.

Bear Child

These are three poems that have a reference point in prose at the start. I prepared them for a post yesterday, but it was not posted properly until today. They are a bit confronting to start with, without the full length of social commentary so as to contextualise how they have arisen at all.

Thereby can I commend that it is good to begin with by looking to the main essay of this web log. It began as a response to a book by the Australian Historian Henry Reynolds, whose history is famous for its insistence that Australia has been a battle ground of open warfare, denied the status of warfare, so as to subjugate the Indigenous population. That fact is what all these post are really about. So much of our stories are still not yet told only because we are all still so raw to the full brunt of the invasion of Australia being still an ever present wounding. Yet it is that among our invaders were also those whom had been so terribly subjugated long before us, whom have arrived here as refugees and exiles of one sort or another.

This work is well inside the influence of two Corroboree of significant to every indigenous Australian. The first was in 1988 upon the eve and dawn of the 200^th year since the British claimed Australian as Crown land and named it Terra Nullius, or a land without people. That title is still today present in our constitution, which Aborgines have been held within only since 1967, forty years ago on 27^th May this year. Seventeen days away and counting.  The Corroboree was made to reinstate Traditional Kinship.  A second Corroboree was made during the Sydney Olympics, which linked directly to the first, and which many Traditional Aborigines whom performed in the Olympics opening ceremony were participants in, and brought its full flavour into that public ceremony. It was a Corroboree for welcoming all refugees and exiles on our land into our Kinship, to join our side in this land dispute with the crown of England. Many with us are those whose ancestry is Islamic, and we also together include many whom do indeed accept also responsibility for lands named as England Ireland Scotland and Wales, as well as other parts of Europe, the Middle East, Africa, Asia and the Americas. The war of invasion of our land, has been recognised by our ancestors always, as a war against perversions of legal practise in the form of the governance of nation states, for we were at all times attuned with the prophesies of Islam before the British arrived.

The writing work here in this web log, is but a small part of the total work of many Indigenous story tellers, to catalogue the process in which we have already begun to witness the passage of the events described in Revelations. Within my statement of that, believe me that if you find yourself in fear from reading what I write, to the extent that you can not believe in my story being my real life, then you are only working to a knowledge which is not yet for you in your life. The passage of Revelations will be gradual and in a gradually increasing stability of the pattern will eventually reach all lands.

Why Australia, is perhaps not for me to be able to answer, except for the fact that among our indigenous population are many whose nightmares, still today, include bearing witness to the original fall.

 My own belief is first and foremost in Jesus.  I am Muslim, and Indigenous to Australia, permanently bound by our own cultural tradition in the passage of time.

Peace be with you

Intelligence  

Can I expect

What will happen next

For the police did call

Me any number of things at all

And followed me throughout

Many days of no doubt

Their wasting government resources

While I wondered what all the fuss is

About

Until I comprehended

They seemed to suppose

After long enough I know

That they were the only ones left I could talk to

And so talk to them I did

About whatever I knew of hid

That had the corruption built in

Of bidding upon harming children

And kept up my own cataloguing

Of what police where actioning

Of all the information I gave to them

Of course only what I myself have been given

By those far more embedded than I

And living far more dangerous lives

So whose information’s value

Had a different stake to my own

Yet still the will in me

To fondly have grown

Of many criminals lesser known

While police had only supposed

That I was who is able because

Upon their strings have I been hosed

With the water of no other pleasant thing

Besides falling into their ring

Are not they so denying

Of real intelligence complying

So next I expect

They will find me

Never quite taking up the plight

Of whom a nice wife of me made might

Yet who seems to have fallen

Into the dust tall and

Thick with thieves and roses

He who cleaned up my Dreamtime moments

Able to provide me a nice married life

But of police’s device

Will my work to find

Such as it is be denying

For learned has it

Never to expect nothing but getting

It quick

An Australian’s View to American Blue 

Growing up we were told not much

But for the arch conservative

Is American to be preserved in

And had an American friend

With a hippy mother who remembered when

The refugees from
Vietnam dodging

Stayed with her and her man

Or was it perhaps that

The refugees were of
Woodstock

It was never quite clear what sort of rot

Until quite recently my fear

Found out that families rear

Passage has somewhat of a

Hideous reputation

For finding and blaming

What ever is the best of

The world of the child’s rest

And so to their nest

Now here in
Australia

Had my perceptions

Been quite bent of Americans

Yet now today is

A wonderful climate

For finding the way true

In every environment

Even the most depraved

And in this situation

I have happened to fall into the station

Of being blessed with the reputation

Of having to tell Americans

What it is we are suffering here in
Australia

So first let me tell swell

Do not assume that upon our pain

We could ever make any capitalist gain

That tried and true

Was done right through

And nothing new

But corrupted true

Proven when the Queen sacked who

But for what seems righteous

This day of all days

Is that no night is

Without the grave

Of never expecting

To have anyone to blame

Bar our own selves

Yet it is not that we are lame

But that our way true

Is to be ever renewed

Through each of our acceptance

Of the passage the worst go through

And my message to you

Over in
America

Is that we here Australians

Are struggling because

That which was done to those arrived as slaves

Is being done over here

To everybody who is near by

In achieving any outcome

Of social justice in time

Such that our mainstream consciousness

Has marked every fact of social justice

As drug taking flea bitten rotten dog poo

Yet within that methodology

Have we

A system of communication

In which make no mistake

Just a slight part exaggerate

And the floor of the fate

Of the last of all gates

Bottoms out to our favour

Yet without social justice

There is getting to be

Nothing left to win

But death

So climb on in

If your way is to want victory

Then begin with us to see

Clear weather this storm

We have done it before

As hard as it takes us

Those who pushed

Will fall far

By our own falls through their tar

This set of bits and pieces of my writing is saved onto a hardware device with the strange name: “believe because it does not really matter supposedly”, and not because I intended to save with that name, but because it just happened by accident of bizarre complexity. But that is what my life is like, and so I kept the file name. Though I must say that over all I disagree with it. But today being 8^th May 2007, it is what happened, by accident, and I notice that today I am also not the only person having trouble signing up to open a new Word Press web log.

Computers tend to have a habit in my hands of manifesting strange occurrences which they are not meant to. At times it can be very disquieting, usually bemusing, and always frustrating. Today I am non-committal in this respect. But today I am trying very hard to get myself a new weblog in a more high profile site than where I usually tuck away my writing. Actually, usually I only publish drafts in weblogs, because I value my drafting of the finals to be really needfully well more close to home in the copyrighting stakes. However, the writing in this group is all already well overexposed, and so time for it to become a face of somewhat more prominence than previously. Eventually perhaps that is, but that is all not the point of what this part of my work as a writer is all about.

This set of writing includes an essay which is possibly a bit overworked by now, and forms the bulk of the post. It is the first thing in the post after this introduction.

Then there are some poems, and a bit of social commentary of necessity, but really only so as to not have needed to rework the essay again, and then more poems.

The essay began before Christmas 2006, and was finished as it is here today, with only a few words changed in a quick look through it for suitability to publish at word press dot com, as early in this year as the first few weeks in January. In fact I ordered a set of ISBN numbers and had a full intention then to have printed it out as a paper publication by now. But there was a hiccup. Two actually.

The first hiccup was that I had two other shorter essays, and a whole ream of poems, which all first manifested at around the same few month period, and I was trying to combine them into one single book to a set theme. But I suspect that the combination was flawed at the outset. Not flawed in consistency of intention however, but flawed in assessing compatibility and reader investment. Yet that is as may be, because the other hiccup is far more interesting.

I had been getting followed systematically by police. Well I still am in fact, and have been since I was a teenager. As a teenager I became involved in the Indigenous land rights movement through a local community radio station, 2XX in Canberra ACT, which had begun as a student draft resisters pirate radio station during the Vietnam war. Some years later I became a member of an organisation called Women Against Racism, or WAR for short, in which I met a number of very notable radical political agitators. Most are mostly harmless of course, but one is a person whom might be very dangerous. But the danger did not come from a Kerry Browning whom was framed with firebombing South African diplomats cars. She was let off the charges after proving in court that she had been framed. At the time of her court case we all learned that ASIO, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation, and ASIS the Australian Security Intelligence Service, and the AFP, the Australian Federal Police, have files on us all, because the existence of those files was exposed in court. When I say all, I refer to all those whom interacted with Kerry. Kerry had been married to a man named Maxwell Nemadzivanani whom was then the Australasian representative of the Pan Africanist Congress of Azania. That was in the late nineteen eighties, and the story of my youth is of getting about as a concerned, worried, and sad girl, who did not want Earth to be in the trouble it is in today, but whom could not care less about having police following her, and was usually oblivious to the fact.

However, in recent years, I have been pressed by the need of a court case of my own, to become less oblivious to the fact of being under constant police surveillance.

The degree of such surveillance is difficult to describe, but the essay I have written makes no bones about it. But that is not in the slightest what the essay is about, but just an interesting sideline fact to its writing. The full fact being that just as I was coming to the concluding period of a massive redraft of three original essays, and a whole set of poems, it happened that the USB drive all my work was in became in the hands of a couple of fellows with Army style hair cuts in the vicinity of where I had been using public library computers. Then I redrafted, and it happened again. Then I put that part of my writing aside for a while. Perhaps it is the paragraphs about the Queen, I mused, that I might need to change to get this work published. But it really did not seem to help.

Then I had a marriage proposal made to me by a stranger, but whom took this situation very seriously as he is a traditionally oriented Aborigine. So my writing changed its course somewhat, and since then I have been drafting poetry faster than I can afford to type and edit it.

This morning I awoke dreaming about putting this essay, as it is, into word press dot com.

I am quite happy about the idea because I have been skirting around the issue of what and when to open my own web log with word press for a while now.

All that remains to be told is that all my writing, when published by my own company, is within the Company’s Trade Mark. So if this work had been my own publication, rather than a Word Press covered thing, thanking Word Press their Copyrighting work for sharing, it will be known as a product of:

“Dreaming Haadjmo’s Dance Time; AManuel,”

a game to play to learn you well,

along with much other of my work designed to become gradually compressed into an educational role playing games for my sons to inherit the ownership of. This part of my work is scene setting, and I write both in poetry and essays of prose, but am still writing at this time, only so as to keep up the record of events I am witnessing unfolding. The eventual aim is to transform our witness into a form which opens up fully how we Indigenous Australians are enabled by our Dreamtime mythology to correlate most events in our witness, with the Prophesies of Revelations, Qur’an, all Mohammed’s Ahadith, and that of any other Prophet. Playing the game of life is what will save Earth.

Apart from that, all that there is to tell is that no person whom I have mentioned, will be able to be identified as real, without me also having mentioned their names here. But if Word Press web logs are not manifesting as accessible by the close of business here in Australia today, perhaps this whole blog will manifest in an other, or a few other context first, and also.

“Excuse me Mr. Reynolds,

but I am a white Australian who was told

and nobody tells my story yet . . . ,”

This morning I decided to stay in bed and read. I have a copy of Henry Reynolds book: Why Weren’t We Told. By 10:32 am I am walking to the bus stop with 97 pages read. I am already too exhausted in my own life story, by my receipt of the stories of my black distant relatives, to be emotionally able to keep reading without writing down my own response. I am a writer and a sole parent and a number of other social constructs which this essay will address. I am not employed as an academic and my writing has consistently worked towards an attempt to consolidate an awareness of the validity of Aboriginal cultural forms of verbal expression as equitably valid a form of scientific study of Human society as are the more commonly utilised verbal formulations. The story I will unfold, as an early response to Henry Reynolds book, will reveal that it is only a matter of time before the Indigenous form of story telling will be gain mainstream academic currency.

That Henry Reynolds has written a story about his own experience of learning to become a historian of the Aboriginal Australian experience is the real public face of the kind of work I am engaging in, simply as my real life story, both within the Aboriginal community and among other white people. Now I am no Sally Morgan, and certainly there are plenty of academics whom precede me and write within the context of history as a social science, but also of their own real life stories. This is the old way of telling history after all, and that which I make no claim as owning the origin of. But what is significant about the new book by Henry Reynolds, and others like it which are recently being published, is that the personal stories of the researchers are being now regarded in the mainstream, as well as in Aboriginal culture, as an essential and integral component of the historic story which those same authors work to present.

We can not recount history without ourselves becoming a part of that history, effecting that history, and so immersing ourselves within the need that our own lives become transparent within that history. This knowledge is become a mainstream ideology in modern Australia, not because of the academics whom understand Aboriginal culture and are working for this outcome, but because of the lives of ordinary Australians. Even if we are still within that Great Australian Silence, thanks to many authors and film makers and radio presenters like Henry Reynolds, the former “cult of forgetfulness” is no longer the fruit of our fathers. (The terms “Great Australian Silence” and “cult of forgetfulness”, are both attributed to Reynolds, H., see exemplified at Viking 1999, Why Weren’t We Told.)

This work is a composite of a book review and an introduction to my own writing, as an exposition of why I am writing. The two intrinsically converge. Why I write is why I write in the way I write, and also why the Reynold’s story interests me. I am a person who made an active choice. To give to Black Australians the Nobility of never needing to cry out aloud with the pain of what was done to their life. It is theirs. Mine is to tell. In owning this white man’s Dreaming, I have owned my pen as a tool for bludgeoning Australians, and any others who will read me. Bludgeoning us out of innate resistance to recognising the reality of the Earth at our feet. Who are we to own the distinction of being Human if we can not own the soil under the hospitals we were born in? Own that terrible story of hospital birth as equitably as the black Aborigines own their own Dreaming. Reynold’s work neatly stimulates my own self as a story teller.

I am not going to apologise for my work being emphatically self referential, as my stories explain reason. Just by my being there is reason for this. And any self decent self-referential work, can not exist without being equally deferential. And in that my work must be in deference to the work of the generation which has preceded me, of white Australians who looked to the black man’s world. They gave birth to me. Yet that I am self-referential, and that this is also only almost a book review in writing of any approximation to an academic worth, can be reality beginning to define what I am of any academic worth, only as it can gradually unfold by only your own reading being contextually relevant.

Henry Reynolds book “Why Weren’t We Told”, postulates the context of me, which I might weave into a cross hatching of real context, through snippets of its convergences with my own Dreaming. This whitefella Dreaming in which we have in common that we Dream a-confronted-whitefella-way, is a Dream in which we share only an oddly similar divergence of experiential certainty. I must commend why the whole Reynold’s family should wear my writing well and complimentarily. The fact is that I could not, by any method, weasel out of writing this response to Mr Reynold’s book, is a mark that his book is attuned with the esoteric current of Aboriginal Australian work to influence the mainstream.

The stark shock that Reynolds confronted in 1970, as described at the opening of his book, happened when I was only two. It is an ongoing Revelation. I must caution that while we endlessly worked that no more children were ever so incarcerated, the continual situation of unreasonable arrests at Palm Island, is just one of many thorns we must all face. I had a Lover who is is a black man, and inheritor of the Quinkan story here in Queensland, but through His Father whom was from New South Wales.

My friend came to Mosque with me, and made true testimony to His Faith in Islam, in front of the Arab Imam. In truth he was initially motivated by three forces: 1) To help me within His Love; 2) As directed by Black Ulan organised crime; 3) So as to investigate whether I should be a potential murder victim. We should all pretend here not to know the third and second fact, OR the first and second. Leaving a place for the fourth: 4) To be enabled to break through the barrier of Muslim protection surrounding me as recognisable Mujahideen. Gosh, now my story seems unbelievable already, but that is the reality of Islam; and after all, “mujahideen” are defined as the companions of the Prophet whom have proven ourselves to be fully immersed in the religious belief system, that is, in the “Deen” of Islam.

Most often immersed to the extent that Mujahideen are whom seem not to be really Muslim; but to get that you might need to expand your own reading. If Religion is the opiate of the masses, well then I prefer its worth to that of the opium crops Afganistan also exports. But stories of Ali Baba and the fourty theives, or hashish addicted assassins, and other of the thousand and one Arabian nights, are certainly the best starting place for Australians to wonder upon Islamic might, Islamic nights, and what of its worth converges already without own Dreamtime.

My own stark shock is a markedly different one.

My Quinkan Dreaming Lover has recurrent experiences of a real, and painful, stigmata. For those who don’t know about this yet, it is experiencing along with Jesus, His crucifixion, in bodily compassion: thorns, nails, and cut in the left side; a set of inexplicable physical symptoms which all began after He became a Muslim. He himself did not recognise what the symptoms were. Oddly the symptoms, which he found extraordinarily painful, were occuring when He was so inebriated with alcohol as to be rendered insensitive to any other sensation. That they occurred also at times when He might have been putting his mind to the Black Ulan commitments he had to fulfill because of family, is a totally irrelevant, just coincidental, fact.

Please bear in mind that his failure in the internal Jihad against alcohol was landing him only knowing his own fault in Allah as his own, and being held in the debt of those Muslims whom his public presentation misrepresents by use of alcohol after he has pronounced His Shahada in testimony to belief in reality. My landing in His Love was to be whom now has to tell for his part also. That is for the telling, His wrongs are accounted as owing only to believers.

Believers in One God, in life, and in our own selves. Believers that it is the black way to withhold the stories which could have boded ill for the future. Believers that He, like I, are being held into a more appropriate, and eventually lesser, account of debts to Humanity, than if we were not become Muslim. But lesser because we are in hijab, is only one small frame of the whole story, and that by which Islam is ever the victor in enabling such wrong blame. Believers also that not enough Australians have been exposed to the truth of why such a man might have sought to become a Muslim. Have I told it straight?

These last two paragraphs are not the only place in this essay in which I make reference to the fact of being Muslim. Yet often in modern Australian contexts, in fact especially that of socialists, I had found my self actively silenced in telling that I believe in Islam. Fortunately there are also socialists whom listen to any persons belief, just the same as a Muslim will listen and absorb what you might already believe in, so as to integrate your belief with their own. Every writer is also engaged in this process, of anticipating what could potentially be any audience disagreement with their own mental processing. There sure are some hearty socialist denials of the intelligence of Islam in this country. Because that is, I would like to provide a little detail to detract from any loss of credibilty my writing could suffer in light of. Thereby, I will not, as I might have, avoid my own beliefs here, but I will depite the Islam which sustains me. Yet I mean not especially in this context to convert you, nor will try to. But I will try to portray what I believe in, withing that thought system you might be more familiar with, and leave open the world of Islam for you to explore in your own way without me blessing you or not in your beliefs. So please then just bear with me in the parts of my writing in which I provide a necessary back drop for you to be able to contextualise me. Contextualise me just the fact that I am ordinarily, in the first instance of meeting with anybody, a plain white Australian Muslim, whom can explain that this status is not insane.

First, there are words from Arabic which are wrongly associated in the internal logic of most non-Arabic speakers. For example: Al-Qaeda is, as well as a criminal front for CIA sponsored activity, the expression of a set of descriptions of the base line beliefs of all Muslims, that is “The Foundations” are not terrorist crime, but a clear scientific description of all that Allah is and is not, and what we each must hold our own self accountable for within that comprehension; Taliban is, as well as a criminal front for world intelligence agencies falsifications about Muslims, a word meaning “Seekers of the Truth”, and describes any Muslim ascetic, and many many of the Indigenous persons of Afganistan whom are dervishes; and a Mujahideen could be anybody, or just somebody like me, but in general is anybody in whom it will be entirely impossible to dissuade from belief in their own responsiblity.

Many many Mujahideen are not showing themselves publicly as Muslims because of the gross and organised defamations of the status. Within the Muslim context, Mujahideen are also those whom are the best of all scholars of Shari’ah, and have proven such by long endurance. The schools existing within Islam were all begun by significant men known as Imam Mujahideen, and can be equated with four, or five, six seven, among the Churches mentioned in Revelations in the New Testament, but depending upon the degree of an individuals Islamic education whether the schools are in fact teaching in the Revelations Prophesy also.

So how on Earth has a normally mainstream white Australian manifested the identification as a Mujahideen Aborigine? Well, I don’t know that I can answer that question fully here, since by definition both distinctions are a lifetimes of experiential learning to acquire, but since Reynolds writing stirs the bucket of why that is the truth, I might write around the example of my self, and perhaps also write to prove that you don’t need to be a Muslim to be counted as a believer. (There are twelve thousand of us in each of the twelve tribes of Israel, but I will never condemn any individual or race or culture or Religion as being not among us . . . is the clue to the key. The key that is also known, among junkies, as being a sucker. The key to believing. Belief in One God, in your self, and in evidence of Reality, is being a believer, or a sucker if you have a criminal association in mind.) Being Muslim might be only a personal fetish of mine, or it might be an obligation, or a convenience, or a matter of genuine faith. You might never know unless you happen to find yourself also believing in yourself as one among the believers. Yet what you can not know, is not my business, and my business is to give you of my self that which I believe you might be able find beneficial knowledge. So welcome to the first necessity of Islamic belief, that of being able to question what is really able to be believed in. I will advise you to use your own mind’s training in science in all of any curiosity which might be stimulated in Islam. Be scientifically critical of my expressions of Religion, but not emotionally negative by having had negative stereotypes of Muslim terrorism been forced down your throat. Don’t swallow my descriptions of being Muslim, or of Islamic perception of the world, unless you want to.

I was conceived in the aftermath of the 1967 referendum, born in July 1968, after my maternal Grandfather paid for a ’shot gun’ wedding. My parents are seemingly baby boomers, but that was more the orientation of their own parents and their peers, and I have always been a step ahead of the X-generation. Many of my own age friends, orient themselves to the world as members of that younger portion of baby boomers, and also of an X-generation.

Perhaps I am of a whY-generation, enabling that my own children will be able to tell that the world is one/won, of the letter Z, in Tarot The World. Basically my story is that I am who got told. Got told what is wrong with the world. In every way and at every place and in every timing. Why am I? Was the burning question in my mind from my earliest memory. Why Me? Why can I know this things my parents are oblivious to in their efforts to be decent? But to explain how and what that question means, and meant to me at a young age, I really need to tell from within the heart of my own experiences.

There is no other way to answer the question. Yet also no answer exists ever in completion. And still we ask, because it is for the finding that WHY wrong exists exonerates HOW we will be able to repair it. Perhaps it is that Henry Reynolds and my parents quested for how, as how is the most necessary question. Perhaps their eternal wisdom in knowing to know how and let why work itself out is what my will is also. But before arriving at WHAT the solution really is, we know that our children need to be able to learn why those wrongs exist without the intense fear that can surround the terror of how the world has been conducting itself. We only happen to be living in a time when the real “what we need” to complete to survive begs us to be mentally prepared through why as well as that essential immediate how.

‘How’ is the relativity of feeling, but ‘why’ is shrouded in the fear that perhaps we already know but are ignoring the truth of cause and effect. Like: ‘why’ is it that death is? ‘What’ the solution is to questions like death is already long provided within both Christian and Muslim Religious Prophesy, and long already accepted implicitly by Aboriginal Australia. But liken to the ‘hows’ and the ‘whys’, or the ‘whys’ that are wise, and the ‘hows’ of Native America, ‘what’ is a never ending re-learning of the lessons of the past.

‘What’ is the solution to the ills of the post-modern industrialised destruction of ozone? ‘What’ is the solution to the questions of biological evolution? ‘What’ is the mechanism of why we believe what we can possibly believe? In fact we Australians knew the answers to the questions of this time when the Muslims first arrived here, at the height of the Empire of Islam, and soon after some among those first to arrive departed, we knew that they departed in certainty that we are a race already in the sunlight of submission to our own real account in Allah, needing little to resource the process of conversion. But why? Then also why is it that we are not today accepted by the schools of modern Arabic wealth in Islam as equitably Muslim?

The obvious part of that why is because we wear bikinis and are rarely in veil. Then it is that the ‘they’ among us we fall to, they who tempt us to drink alcohol, they smoke, they gamble, and . . . all those ‘they’ we might fault with our own selves, are preventing us from the credibilty of being well regarded by oversease interests; but the ‘we’ I am a part of, we do not like earning interest, and interest is a decisively anti-Islamic habit. These are the questions that my own life quest has arrived at with a thud, and in that the story is one which will need telling. Hang on, wait a minute, how was it again that we are already quite like to being Muslim? Why did a Muslim advisor to the Prime Minister recently tell we are alike already to being a Muslim nation?

When the ‘what’ we are, ain’t in full hijab, despite my own Christmas patchwork print fabric head gear, (not quite Gingham), we might just need to know ‘why’ so as to know who we are. Islam is the religion of ‘why’; but after I posted a draft of this essay into an internal Muslim internet forum writers workshop for initial feedback, that feedback I first received was a American black power consciousness vote that my credibility is in the impossiblity of my reality having become born.

So here at 23^rd July 1968, in the wake of the admonishing of flower power to the Americans, in favour of small town Australian rural orientated lives of poachers of the vote, I got born into a snow storm early in the morning, and was exuded from my mother so fast as to land on my head on the hospial floor only just out of the ambulance door. As unlikely as any Alien landing.

Let me identify my self within the legacy of the generation of my forebears who encouraged me toward an identification that is now my public personality, as a communist, a black-lover, and a radical alternative nobody in particular, and essentially at heart a very conservative bothersome, public vote. Well, I should say that by the time I was old enough to think for my self, even though Mum had said that the Communists caused that there were not starving babies in China, and that in Russia men were paid by how many children they feed rather than by the social strata their skills accorded, I never quite openly identified as an actual Communist, because that would have been social suicide in anybody’s book by the time I was a teenager in the 1980’s. Not to say that I am not and/or have not been, a card carrying member, of some group or other or two.

But in 1987, with a record of having been unemployed for then only just long enough to count as a long term unemployed person, and so a potential social problem, even though less than one year out of year twelve in the ACT, I landed a job at a Community Radio Station under the Commonwealth Employment Programme, and received a rapid re-education from the oldies who had begun the station as draft resistors radio in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. From there it was only a hop step and a jump over to the local Trades and Labour Council conference at which, being a nobody in particular without any sectarian affiliations, I was voted to become the convenor of the ACT Bicentenial Protest Group. My real education had begun in full consequence.

The first job that radio 2XX sent me out independently to cover was a public lecture given by Michael Mansel, then recently returned from Libya. The other speaker, whose name I will not mention since he has subsequently passed away, was an individual whom I had already begun to receive somewhat of an education from in his stories of the stolen generations, which my help to disceminate the oral rendition of, as the volunteer PA operator for a public protest for, had lead into my gaining employment at the radio station. That is, the former Husband of Eleanor Williams who was also the first black Australian published Playwright. Also that individual whom first formally recognised me, and welcomed me into the Kinship of Aboriginal Australia as an identified Aborigine by ancestry. That was in 1988, a few days short of the 200^th anniversary of the invasion.

I guess that perhaps a portion of why I will regard my writing as significantly worthy to be openly exhibited in its early stage of my development as a writer, as this is, is because I read things that make me aware that my own constant point of veiw is amply evident in its lack of portrayal. I find small example in Henry Reynolds work which exemplifies this. He writes that his wife was, in her work, as a mother in Townsville, just simply unable to protect her children from witnessing that the black population were “poor fellas”. Just that, just that fact alone, of growing up in the stream of consciousness of knowing that it is wrong to discriminate against any person on the basis of colour of skin or belief system, but when bearing witness to the treatment of black Aborigines is no longer possible to avoid, we are, as a generation, forming a mainstream awareness of horror, and of our need to question why. Margaret Reynolds was certainly motivated beyond any ordinary of motivation to speak up on behalf of the black community to change the balance of power. Her children’s voice is that still in need of expression.

Children confronted with such contradictory situations as the Reynold’s book describes, form adult minds which need to find a new way to reconcile the real world. I guess most folk mask that horror with money, but as a white Australian whom learned to identify with the black history, and then later factually with my own black, fading into passing-as-white, Aboriginal ancestry, that option was always closed to me. Now, even if I receive any money, I will not clothe myself in it, but probably still prefer a cuppa with the homeless folk on the streets, to a cuppa in the Hilton. My awareness of danger is so acute that I feel equitably endangered in the Hilton as when surrounded by those who live off the handouts from charity street work ‘vendor’ vans. I am brave that I write.

Brave clad in hijab hiding dreadlocks woven with feathers. Brave enough for reason. One reason is because there are those forerunner academics, like Henry Reynolds, whom might just provide the initial audience that I need. Academics like the International Socialist Organisation Politics lecturer in Classical Marxism, who read my essay that is a Marxist analysis of, the changes in midwifery and obstetrics which underpin the attack of control of the means of production in speed of reproduction, against the working class, and whom then provided the verdict that the subject warrants post graduate research. By such individuals having paved the way in the mainstream, I learn that my innate intelligence is a counter to my actual immediate personal presentiment. I might be only a dull prostitute if you meet me. Prostituting only my feet.

Another reason I write has continually stood in the way of that sort of life story in which I could be writing as an employed academic. I really and truly got mixed up a bit deep in black business back in 1988, so deep that there is no route of return, and never has there been. Perhaps that is what the real terror then is, that terror we learn when fully questioning why, the terror of what is it that blacks know that whites refuse to see?

But don’t misinterpret what I mean by “black business” and “too deep”. Really just deep enough, and just black enough, and in business, that of working through the world of white racists attempts to corrupt the work of black Australians, so as to prevent and expose such. It’s an unusual role for any white person to advocate. Unusual to find any acceptance within among the black community, but actually very usual functionally as a white person with any conscience.

One of the more unusual aspects of my life story is that I began to speak when I was only six months old. I was being read to frequently and can even now remember dreams from that age in which a local Aborigine kid with fair skin, whom I had met through my mother attending a local preschool with me in her arms, was telling me what was what. He is now one of the wisest adults I have ever met, and condemned wrongly to a life of being branded with insanity, because after being stolen from his mother, he tried to tell everybody in 1988 that he is an Aborigine, but nobody would believe. He taught me to speak in reality. The alphabet book I was being read to from by adult neighbours, told “N is for nigger”.

One day, being myself, and seeing a black man walking past the front of our house in Armidale NSW (the same street which now houses the Aboriginal Medical Centre), I pointed to him and said naturally “nigger”. Of course, it was much to the embarrassment of every adult connected with the event. So I had an early formative experience of certainty in the fear between persons of different colour, and certainty that the books we were given are not telling it like it is. Not to mention that my mother always stared at “the blacks”.

We were warned not to behave in that same way as the visible destitute blacks, warned and warned and warned, (and warned), but warned to the extent that I eventually discovered myself more at home with a drunken mob under the bridge in Cowra than in my parents home. So why was my mother staring all the time, and WHY was there a photo of a black woman in the old family photo album. Why was the Bible with the names of these old people kept seperate from the photos, and WHY DID MY NANA TELL ME NOT TO LOOK AT THE BLACK WOMAN OR RISK GROWING A NOSE THE SAME SHAPE, just as she her self had. Are we warning ourselves not so show that we are whitefellas whom are a racial anomaly among a black race, or are we warning ourselves not to become too afraid of the worst that is, and rather just let it all happen to us, just as our not too distant black relations will let the world unfold in their minds, not as it is wanted, but as it is.

Meanwhile I have gained a strange sort of credibilty as a white who hangs out with the drunk blacks without drinking, and is accepted. They all know that a sniff of the stuff is enough of that poison to wound me. “They” is ‘they’ as in the black consciousness of my locality, among whom there can be no pretence that I am one of; but yet one counted in among the same race. A race in which to be a whitefella is tantamount to a declaration of being pure evil. After all, while the Quinkin, whom might be helpful in their naughy ways, are one thing, the Jungari are another altogether, and are the white of. Like a migaloo. The black power way of the white skin story, is to accept that label without being so ignorant as to be a real migaloo.

I should here diverge from my mental associations into the Arabic word kafir being that same in meaning, not white of skin, but of mind less able to find constance of being a responsible life. Folk who see the world with black eyes see them as actual ghosts, and that is a great majority of the population whom can manifest in actual external appearance so like, to the eye of a believer whom knows what they are seeing. To me, they are just sort of incompleted lives because my mind will work to define them by story. They are stories which never go anywhere or mean what is real. There is a scientific definition of what a kafir, and kafr/kfr/kafar, is, but let it rest for its terror is real, and defining the imagination is not. Imaginations are not meant to get up out of the grave and walk around causing cultural revolutions to dishearten socialists, but if anybody can imagine themselves into becoming wealthy, why then certainly this is a plausible position.

Are you yet questioning what I am, and if I am either real? Are you really reading this, or is it your Dreaming?

Either way, not to worry too much, because the illusory world crumbles in the long run, wether we identify as Socialists or Muslims or Indigenous, we all know that.

The essence here of the story I am telling is that I had no need of the shock Reynolds describes so well, of having been brought cautiously and tentatively into the reality of black Australians lives, only to have been revealed to in starkness the full depravity of that reality in one fell swoop, by witnessing children being emprisoned as adults only for swearing at school teachers. The fact of my birth alone seems to be quite the shock needed, that already I became a sponge to any such story, well before I encountered Henry Reynolds book Frontier.

Yet the full extent of that shock is deeper still than only one book mentioning one instance of imprisonment of children. It is the shock that many already know and conveniently forget. That shock of certain constant facts of the invasion of Australia, within the context of all the world of what accorded that the British ever built an empire. That the British brought criminals to Australia whose descendents are free, while the descendents of our Indigenous ancestors have been incarcerated at rates which call Australia under the limelight of United Nations enquiries into Human rights abuses, is that shock of Terra Nullius still active.

Please, Mr. Reynolds, but thanking your work, some of us are now growing up knowing. I know that my own shock in that knowledge has been so deep that I would not have recovered without The Ummah, that is, the Kinship of Muslims whom are committed to working among the world’s Indigenous people. (Being in The Ummah, is, in Arabic, like saying among Gurindji Kinship, or among Wiradjuri Kinship or Nungunnawal Kinship, it sort of means being with the ablity to be in one mind with the whole of collective Human worth as you yourself are able to accurately identify Humanity, but being only in that portion of that one mind which is your own small cog in the mechanism of all subconscious thought: Mecca is a veritable automatic remote control emotional support system which is as tight as the best family love. The power of place to reconcile our collective subconsciousness and collective conscious prayers, is the real might of Islam that will be inevitably proven to be impossible to harm.) Still today, far too few of us Australia are enabled to face the full strength of reality in what has happened, and is still happening in many places to Indigenous Australians, at the time of this writing. The shock of prosecutors going against coroners reports in prosecution of police known to have murdered a black man, is very real for all of us this very day. What do the police expect, that they can only be guilty of crime if they managed to extract pleasure out of the depths of a black man’s liver? Don’t they realise what is happening during death to men all around the planet at this time, but most especially to men whom believe in Allah. In writing these words about such shocking truths existing, as men’s livers broken into pieces in police custody, I mean to contribute to that which prevents, and if you will read further you will know that we have the means when we take our own beliefs seriously. But not without the belief of many. The safety of being among very very many whom are inculcated from infancy into accomodating terror and love in one, is very real. It enables that a shock is scarring but not permanently wounding.

The full strength of the shock is, in the British legacy, inclusive of the Robin Hood Dreaming. Maid Marion was the daughter of a Muslim Governor, Saladin, whom was provided to King Richard for Peace. Yet provided within a certain condition, a condition spread by that marriage into all the English aristocracy around all whom they ruled over, but most especially around the girls whom are believers; and which, the conditions established by Terra Nullius broke emphatically, as soon as all Aborigines became recognised as Citizens of the Commonwealth of Australia, and lesser already only through the failure of acknowledging a war of invasion. A 93% majority victory fourty years ago May 2007, is proof not of that war, but proof in deed of the fact that the British regarded Aboriginal Australians as their subjects, but still broke their condition made with Saladin.

The neat coincidence here is in the Arabic meaning of the name Saladin, and the inimical fit its meaning has within Aboriginal culture. The British made a group of pre-existing Muslims their subjects, and failing to notice that our ancestors naked blackness was hijab, they condemned us as they had promised the might of all Islam, at the closure of the crusades, that they never would. Every Muslim effort to prevent such things as Human being children becoming wrongly accused, has up until now at least, mainly focussed upon American Indigenous worth. I guess that American’s saw it coming and lined themselves up so as to receive. Within that constant Muslim work by each individual to prove that their own culpablity is not in the preventing of any Indigenous world from acquiring Islamic education, there was an effort made to avert Prophesy, and in that, have all Prophesies been proven. Yes, my fellow Australians, bless Mohammed because he told the Arabs that we are, and that inevitably an outcome exists, in which they are to be imposed upon to swallow this whole present situation, and did begin to all of fourteen hundred years ago, not for oil or blood, but for their own salvation. Insha Allah I am not wrong in this.

Why I found my way into modern Islam was through the methodology of Islamic scholarship being able to give me a measure in which I can begin to analyse and express ‘why’, as cause and effect, without wasting my self upon delusions of blame. Islam in the Arabic language, is the Religion of WHY, and having been as much a student of comparative Religion, as of Aboriginal Australia, and politics, and medical science; I can qualitatively verify this statement. Arabic oriented Muslims are generally streaks ahead of the rest of the population in scientific education, and all of the discoveries of the Enlightenment in Europe were originally found through Crusaders acquisitions from Muslimsⁱ. In fact, the whole matter was most definitely Prophesied by Mohammed.

Most Australians of any real worth can distinguish that many Muslims are not the good guys; but it is only from in among the Ummah of Islam, that a few distinct facts become obvious about why us Aborigines are not automatically becoming Muslim reverts when encountering Muslim Sheiks and Muftis and Imams. Once in the Ummah it is clearly not because of any Muslim identified bad guys, whoever they are, that we Australians are not embracing the identification of modern Muslimahs. In the Ummah nobody can hide, yet everybody has the shelter of maybe being the worst of all men, but never being assumed to be, so we all presume of one another at least. What holds it together is essentially only the shared belief, even for those whom are not believing. So can I answer your askance of this sort of ‘why’ while you are not yourself a Muslim? Why are there disputes among Muslims as to whether to count Australian Aborigines as already Muslim? Why is the True Law which the Bark Petition was adherent to, not validly recognised as, in truth, Shari’ah, that it is. The recent film Ten Canoes paints that plain. Why is it that even those Muslims whom accept that most Australian Aborigines were already Muslim, (only those whom failed to win their own internal Jihad are not), are supposing that blessed Mohammed’s Prophesies are, in the not too distant future, applicable only to indigenous Americans; but when the application of those Prophesies to contemporary Australian Aboriginal life is the only way to sustain evidence of perspective of relative innocence and positive future consequence, while knowing that there is a hole in the Ozone and global warming. Innocence from having done such things as the hole in the ozone layer, and the greenhouse effect, every time we turn on a light switch. Relative is related to each our individual consumption offset only by acceptance of the indigenous attitude of relation with land and flora and fauna, as being of our own self also. Don’t get me wrong here, it is not, as a few have accused me, that I want to claim to be Indigenous only to be able to acquit my own self of such crimes at a lesser rate; but it is, rather, that I know that being indigenous is being able to train the mind into full acceptance of the real consequences of over consumption.

But then why is it that many Muslims are just not comprehending why an Aboriginal Australia is already a Muslim? Are we Australians, Aboriginal identified and otherwise, just too far well tempered to the problems of terror, or never yet learned in? Or it is the power of the Prophesy of our inevitable underground supremacy? Are be being done a massive favour by being disbelieved? If that is the case, I can assure you, that only who will every be truthful about ourselves can receive. Those whom wantonly portray themselves as the oppressed, whenever there is any other available option in life, accept being causal to their own distress. Hear me in this strong, you can not know what is wrong in me, with me, around me, and to me. You can only know your own experience of me, your own vulnerability to my influence, and your own beliefs which concurr with me. Whatever you regard for the modern Muslimahs, you will be a fool to blame Islam, while now even among Israeli Jews are men converting for Peace.

You might well be able to regard Islam as almost totally irrelevant to your life and your considerations of issues such as Land Rights and Justice for Mulrunji, but you can consider my position at least in the following facts of a Judaic inclination. Has the Human genetic changed radically since the Israelites walked out of Africa? There is recent scienctific evidence pointing to the reality that biological evolution is a more rapid process than was previously supposed. We are certainly not often these days proving we can live on pure Mana. Is it only that we have become lazy in remembering how little we need to live by, since diaspora has been effecting how well we each are learning to remember our individual accountibly as a single unit of life among all other living beings, (that is, how well we are remembering our self in Allah). What might this mean in connection to the reality of Australian Aborigines genetic make up being that only of a complete race whose genetics contain the genome picture of every other race? What did the invaders do to their own future continuity in life when they smoothed a dying pillow? There is a teaching about the seven types of person whom are shaded in their own account in Allah, or as seven sorts of maytr, and Aborigines of Australian equate within those teachings as an eighth racial sort, in the full light of eternity, knowing each our own fate and blessing our means to that knowledge, as individual as our own lives. Essentially, am I correct in being certain that among Aborigines quite some many are living off mainly mana? If we have to use money, bless every example in which we don’t have to have it for food. Is the current climate of difficulties in multiculturalism, a race to be first to know, or a race to be first to walk that passage through Prophesy in to reality being realised.

These questions have immediate currency among academically minded Muslims. But not to most Muslim scholars ablity to merit any other scholar, unless able to include reference to a founded belief in the Prophets, as the basis upon which to make any empirical investigation. Prophets including those of the Jews and of course Jesus. Empirical investigation because, why would anybody try to prove what is not yet existing, if such efforts could be causal to it becoming, meaning that of course there has always been a guaranteed positive social outcome at the heart of being Muslim. The relevance of empirically proven Prophesies, is of course not at all relevant to whom is not provided any context for realising that Prophesy exists. Justice for Mulrunji, might factually be aided by comprehension among Australians, of why the whole Palm Island situation can be regarded as portionally the fulfilment of a Prophesy. But beware of trying to take individual advantage in being Prophesied about, because there is a Prophesy of that very situation being causal to the terror which is, at this time, inflicting the Arabs.

I should here make one point plain in respect of ablity to readily adopt any new story into the Indigenous culture. There is ethnographic evidence of Islam having entered the Top End of NT, via Macassan fishermen, in the Morning Star story. This evidence I have read in Islamic sources, placed as the only evidence of any Islam among Aborigines. There ignoring those devout Muslims, like Jack Akbar, whom married Aborigines believing us to be believers in Islam. The story of his marriage to Lally, published in the book Linden Girl, is fairly well renown, but what is not well renown, is that the circumstances which caused their eventual seperation have been repeating throughout Muslim management of the Iman of Australian Aborigines. A timing difficulty arises if a Muslim man can not realise what we are as Aborigines. Our way can be described as the Magi, or a shapeshifters, depending upon whether you want to honour us in it, but usually needs for a Magi Imam to time it. This is a lesson I had to learn the hard way. It is that lesson which, until learned and taught, has been preventing Muslims from noticing that if we knew in the top end, about that Mohammed blessed, then we all knew, perhaps with the exception only of Tasmania. So why was it a Tasmanian whom went to Libya then I must wonder?

Regardless of which, it is the treasure of all Humanity in Islam, that Qur’an conveniently began as an series of perfectly woven stories interlocking neatly with all Indigenous stories in every part of Earth. I ain’t only saying that because I am a Muslim, but I tell it out of my own constant wonder in such facts. I know us Mossies can be intolerable with the dogma of Praise-Allah-for-all-worth, but if you ever find out why, be no other way than yourself, in any language you may speak. (Mash’Allah for there is plenty, even though I do not know the Arabic for the whole phrase, and only occassionally awake finding I have been Dreaming in Arabic, or an Indigenous language.) If you just praise natural providence of every living creature, simply for the fact that you are continuing to breath, then even without any Muslim education, you are in that moment in Islam. Surely our whole species is so destruco-mad that you can not be assuming of yourself to the extent to suppose you yourself know what is manifesting our continuance? Thereby, in that fact, you have to admit, that Islam is nothing if not also a very neat mind trick: but one which is by design for the purpose of combatting the tricks and treachery which trick us out of facing each other or reality. In Islam, the only thing you can be tricked into is reality, and reality is the whole game. The games of wealth and riches and the corridors of power, what is it which makes you want to work only for Allah rather than your own pleasure? That a Prophesy of Shepards ruling from tall buildings exists, bodes well for us Socialists, but who will it be, and can we really know? The serious study of Prophesy leads the mind into witness of miracle undoubtedly, and if it were not for such experiential evidence, how could we trust that life will continue. This is the cause of every real Indigenous Initiation Tradition, and always has been.

From Adam and Noah through Moses to Abraham and Jesus, Muslims are only whom believe in God while noticing that Mohammed’s Prophesy is, by definition, when fully comprehended, the description of the worst it is possible for us to ever need to bear with as our own account, (that is, in Allah), our own account for the responsibility of being alive. In general the Prophets are individuals whose real worth is only that of any living recall of credible outstanding lives which have been a referential story for their descendants. They are individuals of equitable meaning to those individuals whom Aboriginal cosmology references belief, and recognises as the Ancestors whom made the place be as it is today. Equitable in deed and living recall, are Byaiame, Pund-jel, and Nagacork, to David, Solomon, and Mohammed. Allah bless them all. The advantage of the Prophets of the Arabs is only that of the legacy of the written word. Only because of the writing legacy, they were booned the clearest of the Prophesies. There is a fact, of no small account, in which that legacy will prevail. That the seal of Solomon is one which will hold all men, and also the Jinn, to word. The concept of The Jinn, is one which is the grounding of how Islam will orient into Australian belief systems. While you might not yourself believe in such things as Genies in lamps and Ifrit who scare men whom visit prostitutes, let me commend to you that my pen is able to influence at least how you are able to regard yourself as a life story existing within contemporary urban mythology. Not because of you needing to your self embrace Islam, but simply because I am my self an existing social phenomenon.

A phenomenon of being who can happily empirically relate the work of the people of the book, to the lives of we who are of only our land, so far as to know that the ‘people of the book’ are not only those born to the fertility of a promised land between the Tigress and Eurphrates. Our milk and honey might be termites and spinifex, but we are proving not to have needed to be who reads and writes to be among those whom most clearly define that there is empirical evidence of the book of time and prophets.

The truth about my stopping reading the Reynolds book at page 97, now yesterday many days ago, is that I could not bear the fear in my self of reading another portion of another historic document which referred to Aborigines as Godless. Just that it was too much for that day without being able to express an objection. The sounds of the words by which Indigneous Australians are caused to remember the fact God is, have no need to be perfect for us to re-join in the perfection that is everything of created life.

Perhaps Aborigines have always had different words for God, since the tower of Babel indigenous folk everywhere, different from each other region by region, learned to speak differently from one another, only so as to prevent that strangers know we are real, real in speech about the sacred. The linguistics of Dreamtime language are different from linguistics of daily speech precisely because the seal of Solomon, of enforcing honesty upon pain of death, is then in place. In modern Australian life there are communitists and scientists and public servants who believe in God but have never been provided the social means of entry into any community of those whom are like minded in percieving God. Yet knowing the language of the sacred is not what defines belief. Oddly enough, often those of us whom were believers without being able to express our belief, have been those with remote Aboriginal ancestry. I wondered why for a long time. Along with more general wonders about why the Dreamtime myth equivalent to the tower of Babel story feels to have been such a very recent story here, only a little preceding the British invasion perhaps, and perhaps it never was among those communities in which all children commonly are learning to speak anywhere from 9 to 13 distinct languages. When you have been told, you just can’t help but wonder. Why this difference? Why me? Why am I able to find out when nobody else around me? Is it only that there is a currency of genetic birth right which causes that presentiments of Dreamtime reality seem always closer in mind, than can the mythology of India or Persia or those further distant northern lights, while the Animist faith in Africa has a larger range of beast than we might like.

When I was nineteen at the commencement of the Bicentenary of the Invasion of Australia, I happened to be catching a lift to Sydney, with another person from the Bicentenial Protest Group which I had become the hapless convenor of. She happened to know about a met up in Mittagong of another car of feminists from Canberra, driving the Rape Crisis centre bus, who were to await meeting with the convoy of Traditionally Oriented folk whom had been on the road for weeks from the Kimberly and other parts of WA, NT and SA. The convoy had received media coverage but little to my own perception then of consequence. I was still in that oblivious mental state of being “convicted by the spirit”as they say; that is, I was suffering from a prolapse that quite prevented my noticing most of what was being communicated on the best of days.

We met some other folk waiting at the Uniting Church in Mittagong. I felt like staying to wait, and another traveller felt like departing, and a vehicle swap was made without my having much effective input. So I was there when the convoy arrived, and seem to have, miraculously, changed the whole course of my life. God bless all those whom caused that my own initial shock out of mainstream white culture, was not as Reynolds describes, witnessing children in distress, but it was rather being suddenly in a small white minority among a large and overwhelmingly loving and supportive group of Traditionally Oriented Aborigines from remote Australia. The only other time I had met such people was buying a shirt from a travelling group of women from the Utopia Batik group, whom came to my school, perhaps I was wearing it then in Mittagong. I certainly remember that its strange, familiar and unfamiliar, smell was only of black sweat, and that the shirt had made me already familar with the smell of these people in whose care all my Dreams have been ever since in the trust of.

I am truly blessed as a white Australian because that is a smell which has become synonymous in my mind with safety. The safety of being able to be true to my own self. I have learned only many years later that I was a bit of a prickly pear of an incongruent self whom not many could gauge. My self, as it was then, and is now, splattered with all sorts of bizzare and awful social regard. I guess I am only by now a bit more used to being me, and certainly had to become far more knowledgeable about being me before that prolapse could mend. At nineteen, and having become socially obliged to join the Indigenous black minority population in boycotting the Bicentenary celebrations which most of my pre-exising peers, and all my close family, were looking forward to the fun of, how could my life not have changed dramatically.

In the longer term it has become clear that most of my white peers whom also boycotted are also of Aboriginal Ancestry. But we didn’t know back then, not at first. And in truth I needed a second shock before I could my self fully realise. The shock of realising that the Ummah of Islam exists and has shaped, and is continuing to shape, the entirity of Human life. Once in the centre of esoteric Islam, the perspective is clear: its methodology, which is so alike to that of criminality, is for the reason that we are all existing immersed in the world of the criminal mind. A fact which has not escaped all life of real Aboriginality.

After meeting with the convoy we all had a night at Mittagong highschool courtesy of the Uniting Church, then drove on to La Perouse in Sydney. The Convoy seperated into two sections on the way into Sydney, and I just could not help a creeping feeling that the vehicle we were in was responsible for that mistake. But I can swear that it was not my fault. It was Tanya McConvil’s beer cans which fell out the door when we opened it to find out what direction to take, and it was Tanya who reviled that anybody sought to ask what our mistake had been because it was Tanya whom didn’t want the police to know about the marijuhana in the bus that day. I expect it was neither Tanya’s fault. Everybody was either stoned, or like me and the driver, playing it dead straight. I will mention Tanya only because her name and face are known and knowable as an English woman already within the Gurindji Kinship system. She has an odd and unwaranted reputation for being the face of the far left wing’s realisation of the Land Rights polemic. But she might just be an old drunk who is strategically placing herself to find out what direction might get her out of any culpablity for Islamic Prophesies. Europe of full and brimming with that legacy of the crusades. That’s what I reckon any how. But you never can tell either with us Mussie Gubborigines, we might as well all be the nazis.

Regardless of any of which Tanya is who had told me that the old women in the convoy were going to make it rain, and that it always rained when they did that. Search me as to how the convoy becoming split into two manifested a rain storm. I just can’t tell when it comes to that level of Indigenous Science. But in truth, I knew Tanya as a woman with a degree in Nuclear Physics whom never says that a group of people can cause it to rain, unless she is herself totally convinced that this is what will happen in every single circumstance, and that she herself has tried to prevent it, but failed. I learned very directly from Tanya, so named after Russian Peace work, by her English communist party heritage, but my most important lesson in Peace yet, is not to blame war. Neither will I blame Tanya for her drunken exclusivity about her wherewithall among Indigenous Australians. Our collective pride grants me that my own wherewithall, not among the academics and Elders, but among the street drunks, is in an odd equivalence. To Tanya’s white poverty and substance abuse, among the best educated in the black community, I am a well educated sober Aboriginal white among the black drunks. Thanking whose efforts caught me that lift.

At La Perouse I was given that important handshake welcoming me into the Ummah of Aboriginal Australia by the playwright I earlier mentioned. I was shy and dumbstruck, but feeling certain that special and important things were afoot and that I was strangely specially enabled in witness of these events. I didn’t really display any culture but remember being sensitive to there being a whole set of rules at work which I had no idea as to, and so I could only be carefully minded. I knew that I really really really did not like being white among blacks, and also that I liked being among blacks. This essential internal difficulty took many long years to resolve.

I was invited to the corroboree on the eve of the 26th at Kurnell. I only knew that it was about making the old way strong again. I slept through it. I got laughed at because I was very obvious in being well attuned with Kinship, but within my own internal inablity to know that I am already in that pattern of Indigenous Ummah. I was openly behaviourally adherent, but internally mentally oblivious. A typical whitefella. I remember even wondering if everybody was laughing at my thoughts, but wondering in the internalised white fella way of forgetting to remember that my wonderment is open to that very phenomenon. Yet this speaks to a critical difficulty in modern social relations between black and white. And it is the exact difficulty that my experience of the Corroboree has set my life permanently upon a road of recovery from. How can we reconcile in Kinship when we mistake each other by colour of skin and colour of internal cultural regard, or get these two things mixed up. Both black and white skin persons have white and black cultural practises, and both English oriented culture and Aboriginal culture sustains also internal distinction between black and white in cultural practise more overtly than in colour of skin. These things are overtly taught in Islam.

What I have learned in Islam is in connection with what makes us different from each other, so as to sustain being in common Humanity. We are different racially because of ‘how’, as in, by what specific sin in collision with sins of hate, are adept and holding one another to account. We each also have specific skills in working specific patterns of accountiblity such that we are not in sin, and these accord individual biological differences also, like about those blacksmiths which Charles Darwin pointed out. But these sort of functions, like the difference of mind between a fisherman and a shepard, are still not in essence the difference we experience of Tribe, which is more aligned to the twelve tribes of Israel. Then finally also what is our skin that we are born in, and which normally illustrates the shape of our bones, and our immediate mental attunement capacity, our Dreamline affliations are everything in communication. I am a Nungarrayi of the Tribe of Juda, and might hold you to account in any way since I am an Aborigine.

English culture has a specific structure in which Kinship is not of the conscious mind. I was raised in that structure, yet conscious of that structure, where others I was raised alongside were not. I am sure that this is a familiar story for many whitefellas of indigenous ancestry. That internally noticing of being in a culture of interior comfort from oblivion. Supposedly, that is, we are meant to take comfort in not knowing, but in reality it is immensely discomforting to be noticing the world in ways that your ablity to notice is being denied. We white Aborigines have been inculturated as though we are all really migaloo. But the most common method for us whitefellas to become busted out of our internal oblivion is through drug use. Drug use that inevitably only reinforced the migaloo state. It should only take one single use of a drug such as marihuana, if in the company of blackfellas in good Kinship, whom should be able to provide amply that essential evidence of our collective connection in mind, but they don’t, they laugh instead, and I sure have been long laughed at. In fact, I am certain that the Aboriginal public radio broadcasters found my really very funny when they got me stoned a few times in the following twelve months following January ‘88, and me, I was in that prolapse remember. But I truly believe that the tent embassy has worked somewhat to remedy their way since I was there in 2003, and wrongly believed to be insane because I was just a bit faster of mind, but white.

Realistically the impetus for busting any person out of their English speakers culture must come from that person, but “I know they are laughing at me and I don’t get why” as a mental conjecture, really is the signal of that impetus being needed. The prolapse I had, from 1972, until 2002, needed eventually for an Islamic text to cause me to reach that level of certainty-in-inevitablity required. Clearly I had a big step to make, much to swallow that was not my fault, and had our common place Aborigines ability to gain impeccable self knowledge while in the prolapse state. That being the key to any Rainbow Serpent Story, that I am the Land, and it me.

The really sad thing I learned is that those whitefellas (and occasionally, but far less often, blackfellas among) whom: regularly use drugs; and often sell drugs to Aboriginal youth; and are really always only using drugs so as to bust themselves out of any culture which might cause them to believe in their own self, and own accountiblity; and not actually looking for an Indigenous culture which regulates internal acknowledgement of collectivity; are most often those whitefellas whom the black youth are orienting towards as able to communicate with blacks. This is the hard fact in which my bludgeoning is really beginning. Who the culprits are, are the food for who catch them, which might be why Aboriginal youth are so gravitating, but not often enough successfully to make it worth while. Even worse is that many of the worst of racists are long already realised this fact about black youth and are using it to further strip down the retention of traditional culture that is sustained among urbanised black populations. This is the critical fact which Government funded drug and alcohol programmes are not attending to, but rather too often are reinforcing. We can not manage such work without strong retention of culture.

I for one am an advoate of Islam as the only real way to re-enter Aboriginal tradition with any success, because in Islam we can learn that which we should have found out by traditional initiation, which is the knowledge essential to be safe among any wrongdoers. My own return to Aboriginal tradition is hard but essentially enjoyable, and it has well patterned steps which I have laid for others to follow. Hopefully soon also a success in court. My steps have been through well known standardised Intiatory practises, but unusually found. First a Rom, then childbirth, then experientially structured learning as needed, then the full teaching found through Islamic literature, as though in the fuller Rom. The only problem being that I never got the becoming a woman step yet, because of a series of errors between Muslim and Aboriginal timing.

Within Islamic teaching I can percieve that it is those whom believe in occultist pracise, among white culture, whom, through modern Churches and Rosicrucian based ideas and dreams, are factually culpable for reinforcing the delusions of what culture might have been, among vulnerable Aboriginal youth. But I haven’t had much immediate effect in preventing such while I am standing alone amid the problem calling out: “Hello, over here you guys, I’m straight and I know! But I don’t even pretent to let myself be blamed only because of having white skin. Sure you can take advantage of me in the fact that I have been over to England, any Dreams about English way that you need, and I am happy to regard my self as in your obligation, if you are black. But really this white skin, I am taking it to my disadvantage on a daily basis already in enough different contexts. And if you need a whitefella to get you in any metaphorical doors then I am an adept mental locksmith. Come for a walk through the city with me, to see what I can see, surely thats a better way than to hang around with a bunch of druggies who let you blame them and intend to take it all back one day, because they sure as hell are getting more out of blaming you for blaming them, than you every get out of them.” There are a considerable quantity of persons among the black population whom very much dislike me. But, they can call me a racist if they like, because of my pride inherent in being white, and I will take that black and be again known as more of a racist than the real racists. Perhaps you can perceive then what is happening. Hello there to anybody reading who knows La Perouse, thanks for that handshake mate, and will you find out why I became a Muslim before its too late? This Hijab sure itches my head, but I am making progress with persuading the Ummah of Islam to believe in us and our Aboriginality as a plus.

If I had any message for the Aboriginal youth who identify with their parents and grandparents struggle, through what has become of the tent embassy, then the italics in the last paragraph, are sort of what it would be. I could not have expressed it well when I was last there and received only a broken nose and a black eye for trying. But I hadn’t put my self in the Hijab picture yet then. I don’t, in general, get along so well among black women, except the older ones, which can be understood in the nature of there being diminishing numbers of decent black men around. It is easy to take me wrong in telling that I can no longer stand the idea of the touch of white men.

The few black men whom have taken me up on my offer, never addressed to men, of a stroll through white culture, did within their own intent to sell me out to the whole black community as though I am any old prostitute, . . . and they have gained: a) appreciating themselves being in my company; b) finding their own social value in black society improve through my company, but not when in my company; c) causing that my worth is found suspicious by their hiding of their actual valuation of my company; d) causing that I was myself drawn into the observation of a series of white criminals, whom were seeking to prevent that I could provide this sort of knowledge into the black community. I guess they are white criminals whom are regarding that modern urban mythology is their own private tool for the manipulation of. They are wrong. Even urban mythology is long already won into the Indigenous story traditions and Qur’an.

This pattern I am describing of street level racial relations is a commonly repeating one. Most recently repeated in my life through my eating at the free food hand outs for those without a house to live in on the streets of Brisbane. Actually, in general, I don’t mind the company of the blacks on the street, and really, to survive on the streets of cities, in which the city itself seems to be one big criminal mind, is a skill comparable to that of being a hunter gatherer. There is an informal system in urban Aboriginal contexts, by which any person whom gets themselves into trouble in their own community, has to put in time in the lowest local social strata, which is usually among the homeless, and involves work oriented tasks of keeping an eye on what is going on with local street politics among criminals and between criminals and police. Just because I am white, here in Brisbane, if I want any Aboriginal identification, I am expected to be relegated to the station of homelessness.

I have raged against this more frequently than not because the only reason I am in Brisbane is for the conduct of a family court case in which my children were removed from me because my identifying within the Aboriginal community was regarded as insanity. I need to state that the reason my identification is most often not validated, is less because of discrimination against my white skin, and more because of the need in the Aboriginal community to be relieved of the burdens of being assumed to be homeless, in which I am only a social convenience. So I am the housed homeless in repute, but more like the inhousable at home, where my temper has me in a local cleaning strike. I work at sustaining my self within an Aboriginal identity, as any person with one must. Any interactions with blacks that I am enabled in, are those enabled me by Aboriginal Kinship, and I accept only those available with any relatively trustworthy sober black Aborigines, while also sustaining a home, and I live and learn. Yet pointedly, I never related with folk only because they are black. Though there might be many ways of interacting which I now never enable my self while in white company. This is the reality of me, despite having my nose broken at the tent embassy, I can still always trust black people more readily than whites. But why I really don’t tell. Usually neither will I tell much about the obvious social oddity of my being overtly a Muslim. The Brisbane Streeties seem to imagine that my hijab is there own personal sweetie wrapper.

My approach is to only communicate with any person within a working reason that is not their social or racial status, but is my need to communicate. Constantly I am finding that there are blocks being put in my road by the mechanisms of organised crime, and that I can, somehow begin to accommodate why. It might be only that a few crooks might profit less from black youth if my writing becomes well read, but now what seems to be in play is a regard that I must be prevented from winning in court, so as to prevent a white family from winning an important landmark stolen generations case. Oh well, the courts are now knowing me as a white Australian Muslim rather than as an Aborigine, and the case has oriented to proving the Jurisprudence of Shari’ah rather than proving a case for reparations for stolen generations. One and the same cause in truth. The difficulty is really not that it might have been better for a black family to be in a winning position, but that the courts regard me as an Aborigine and as representative of other Aboriginal women, as though the black community are supporting no mothers, which is really what necessitated that my identity become known rather as that of a Muslim. A Muslim identification can safeguard the self better than and Indigenous identification, from wrong assumptions about cause and effect.

There is legal evidence that my children will be able to sue the Commonwealth, that is no less real with the Aboriginal community refusing to supply evidence of my being an Aborigine and within that cultural regard. But those whom so try to prevent me, and most of them white racists whom are interfering in the local black Dreamtime experience, because the perceive their advantage in blackfellas not believing me, have imagined that the whole case is a set up that I partcipated in causing, and so I am constantly in a heated battle over this with whomever in the black community will lower their dignity to talk to me. I can here state categorically that I had no hand in causing my court case. Whether or not I can idenfity who did it, is neither relevant to the case, in which a brain dead violent alcoholic Irishman has been awarded interim custody now for three and a half years, and it ain’t because of any failure of my own motherhood. But the initial act of removal of my children from me happened on site at the tent embassy, and I have rather extensively protected the black population from this fact by never accusing in respect of, yet I know that the racists are so accusing. I rather place the culpablity at a later date here in Queensland, during Sorry week 2003.

As a white mother whose children are removed my social identity among the black community is far lower than it is among the white community. In general the white community are more likely to believe that I was discriminated against for openly identifying Aboriginality of remote descent as a social identification. While the black community seem to have been imagining that I set my self up to rip them off of a sorry for stolen generations, and certainly struggle to manifest belief that a white person has been discriminated against because of an Aboriginal identification, albeit an informal one. Meanwhile I am raging all day and all night in total ferocious hatred for all the forces which consipired to remove my children from me, but am disabled to effect any real change alone, and have been abandoned to my rage by both black and white mainstream Australian communities. That is, except for those real friends whom are, like me, totally socially disadvantaged in this scenario.

I feel like screaming all day every day, and I know that this rage I am feeling is only that portion which is mine, of the exact same rage which imbues the life of every indigenous person whose land is ever invaded, and whose children are not safe. And I know why there are Aboriginal youths using drugs. The moral support I receive is in the worldwide setting of those whom align to the Ummah of Islam, many are African, and also Indigenous American, with even Chinese Muslims among, and many many Aborigine believers in Christ. In the minds of most people I meet socially here in Australia, if I complain too loud then I am proving the legal case against me, and if I fail to complain I am also proving that case against me; supposedly, and so outside of my writing, inclusive of many legal documents, I am most often very silent about these things.

There is not any real case against me, because I am factually quite sane, and my temper is very evenly held by a lesson long learned. My evidence is being categorically dismissed on the basis that believing in the same stuff as Aborigines and/or Muslims, is a definition of insanity. Perhaps now sooner rather than later, the children’s father will be persuaded by his legal representative to give the children back, since he certainly will not like being the face of loosing to the fact of the permanence of the reign of Shari’ah as the more just system of Canonic Law. So unless you are one of the white Australians whom are already among the Indigneous Ummah, like the many I meet regularly without housing, here is the subtropical Brisbane City Parklands; might I commend that I could tell you a few good books to read so that you too might receive that necessary shock without having to face the blood and gore of the past murders of the incarcerated giving evidence to war, or having your own children removed by negative racial discrimination having being overtly attached to belief. Strangely it is that quite a surprising number among Brisbane’s homeless have already read Qur’an. Not a majority, but a silently influential minority.

In this position, I would have no basis of reality if I were not, first and foremost, putting my health ahead of every other concern except the wellbeing of my children. There are black youth whom regard that I am in a white only culture because of this fact, that I care for my health, but I know that where I have had the means to learn full initiatory material from within esoteric Islam, which is equitable with a full traditionally oriented Aboriginal education and series of initiations, most urbanised youth just are not being provided to in this basic need. That is the only reason why I could have climbed a social structure ladder among the urban Aboriginal community, if I had only been a regular marijuhana smoker, and even surfaced at the top.

The problem is not that I am white, but that I am white and not inclined to any criminality, so receive no veiled bribes, like many black Australians whom turn away from in favour of True Law. Aboriginal youth need the knowledge I have acquired, and urgently so as to protect the next generation from crime. If only they were being enabled to connect with their fears without resorting to drug use, this country will be made one Ummah in reality once again. One Indigenous Ummah. This is why I am at odds with much of the local Islamic community. Islam could have been providing to our youth. Islam has the means. Rather has the American Indigenous community been provided to first, but at what eventual expense while Native and Afro- American Prayer sustains me? Will our Aboriginal culture become taught more fluidly to the mainstream as The Way has been taught in American tertiary institutions? What is that difference in The Way that our Australian Indigenous worth brings?

I hate to mention it, but as a part of a race whom longest knew the truth of that passage to Jannah, we might in fact be onto a winner by having decided to let ourselves fall out of self certainty. That is to say, letting that the teaching of The Elephants will have its way, was our collective perception at the starting of this invasion. But if only the Jews had evidence in Qur’an, we’d really all be in it together. Allah might not help, but by calling Allah “God”, is the best way to pray for any Muslims whom ever prevented Jews knowledge of Qur’an, for surely that fulfillment of Prophesy is the most terrifying portion of deception for any person to have fallen among, and I have witness to such. Compassion can only be that of guessing that somebody had to be so blind as to. Meanwhile this immense contradiction between our reports of being in the sunshine, not the shade of Allah, and accepting each others pain relief, while knowing its expense is real, is just that we are living through without doing these things, and our witness of Prophesy is real. Real that we each encourage each other in just that acceptance which enables accepting one more small portion of the total account. So any Muslim believers whom know what I am meaning, this is our Dreaming and we need to know your will is with us when we see your falls also.

Where Muslims with the resources to help Australian Aborigines, are providing in Redfern, it is not within the world of Islam as it is compatible with an Animist cultural belief. Aborigines will give up drugs and give up many objects of the invading cultural identity, will readily give up any animal behaviours and animal mind, but will not give up certain belief that when we die we become turned into animals. But in providence to non-Animist beliefs among us, we are reduced in our capacity to adjust to fear. Those with an Aboriginal identity whom are not communicating this to the Ummah of Islam, are not truly Aborigine in biology. One Aboriginal fellow put it to me that he is a Muslim whom does not Pray. It took me a while to figure out that he meant only that he will not perform the supplication aspect of Prayer, becaue his du’a is sound.

That we “always take our animal (or bird)” is what defines us in Spirit. Just another part of nature, the worms will eat us and fertise the soil, the native grasses grow and the Kangaroos eat of, and we will become our own meat, no need for the extremities of fear to hide from, and no need to be a guilty person to know that death is to fear, or to believe that Allah’s will includes for us to exist in the natural forms that are different to the Human form.

Aboriginal culture has this fundamental difference to most of the world’s cultures, there are not many whom can mentally adjust to living in two cultures, and those whom can usually are not inclusive of Australian Aboriginal belief system, and also are most often also unable to express their experience in the English language, except in American and Muslim examples.

Yet here in Australia is the whole Aboriginal population existing in two cultures and most of us also speaking English. But a fact of failure of provision of inter-cultural teaching materials in English has worked to the detriment of Aboriginal Australian youth whom are taught in English. I intend that my work will combat this fact. Also I know, and know of, Muslims whom believe in my work. But often that I am factually bound through my own eventual death, to the Indigenous Ummah by cause of that Corroboree in 1988, through which I am bound to provide of every resource I can find which will strengthen our Indigenous Ummah, and this makes me an expensive kettle of fish for the international Ummah of Islam to accept, because the Australian way is to be inclusive, while Arabs tend rather to work exclusivity as strength.

So I am learning to tell it like it is in the English language, and most folk just aren’t used to that, especially that I can tell you that the five pillars of Islam already underpin everything which founds the beliefs of Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal Australians. So, while we don’t all bow to Mecca, but within Shari’ah are exonerated that by travel expenses, and more importantly of old, our inherent capacity to conceptualise distance, and we do pray through the land of our own fathers. How many Australians like me are likely to realise that to land Ka’ba is to land the world? My sons have realised while living at their fathers. Meanwhile in my English trained external mind, I pray in the direction of Mecca frequently without connecting through any local Mosque or Imam, just because I can.

Thanking all the black Australian authors whose work paves the way of putting pen to paper in realistic self-referential English, I reckon that it is about time a few whitefellas had our say, and wore our share of the burden of being who has a life story that is in need of being told as a prickly pear of what nobody wants to know. While the black population is absorbing the incarceration rate which the British brought here, it is the least I can do to absorb the story of a struggle to be heard.

Meanwhile, if there are any blackfellas or whitefellas who reckon they can avoid our collective cultural heritage of accountibility to land, only by becoming a Muslim, well I reckon we can let them try, don’t you? They might too, but only if they were not true to being an Aborigine. But then, it all depends upon what you can acknowledge of what the Arabic word “Muslimah” is meaning. And what is that Surah “The Elephants” about, and how can in nurture the case of Justice for Mulrunji? To question who are the real terrorists, is to know why I prefer to be identified with Lebanese kidnappers, than with the Judaic world that nazism has infiltrated, but only until we take those Elephants, in full, straight. To a Jew, if the old testament is a treasury, and Gospel victory, then Qur’an is straight bliss.

So in 1988 I was at a Corroboree, so what? What has that got to do with it, might many ask. It is nothing to ride my crediblity on, and doesn’t make me special, but “it has everything to do with it”, I will say. I am bound under the strict obligation I have described, by a whole convoy of people, and the whole tribe of each of them, and the whole collective Ummah, for my passive particpation there that day. I have seen all the signs in the Australian Institue of Aboriginal And Torres Strait Islander Studies in Canberra of the Rom ceremony that was performed at the old site before it co-located with the new National Museum, so am bound in that also to every aspect of Traditional cutlure I have read about within the library there.

I went to the Museum on the day it opened. I made a middle of the day decision to show my children Pharlap’s heart, after not being able to make the early morning smoking. We were bare foot and pyjama clad in actual fact, but I had suddenly thought of it as an attendance of important consequence while in the car for some other, forgettable, reason. We sat on there on the grass at the new museum while Aboriginal performances progressed, and I felt that something is wrong, then I suddenly remembered, “Oh, I haven’t told the children that we have Aboriginal Ancestry”. So I told them, not as my Nana had informed me, but with pride and dignity, and commitment to work to ensure that my children live up to this inheritance. And with the sounds of the traditional performers songs ringing in our ears.

In 1988, something happened to me which triggered a pattern in my subconscious. In fact, it is a pattern in which I am able to cause that a subconscious awareness is made able to become into the conscious mind. But it is also far simpler, and just the pattern of my own Dreaming from where I am born, and as it connects by my Dreamline, into the Northern Territory. But the immediate trigger that day in 1988, to my external mind, was not recognition of my own song as is the inherent internal experience, but was hearing the woman from my home state of NSW speak. She said: “we can’t do it alone, we are only 2%”, and I heard within the very deep and painful sorrow that was being expressed, a permission being granted to participate in this process as a white person. I was informed that I am needed, with more strength than my mother had ever informed me.

Back then I didn’t even know I am an Aborigine. Well, I could guess, but it was very soon after the Corroboree that my Nana warned me not to look at the photo or I would grow to resemble that black ancestry. I heard her only in her assertion of inheritance. I will not hear her in her fear. So I privately received a blessing, and set about that year to become a more active part of work against racism. When I was in London the following year and the one after, I put a Land Rights flag on the picket of the South African Embassy in Trafalgar Square and it was there the day Nelson Mandela was released, and now the Ummah of Islam whom are actively working in Southern Africa, are supporting my work in Islam for Australian Aborigines. It won’t need to be only 2% of NSW who make this country one whole Ummah of Aboriginal Kinship again.

I was in London at a concert which a member of the Guilford four attended on the night of that release, (The Guilford four were Irish folk framed as thought members of the IRA and whom spend long in prison.), and I have been into the Sein Feinn office in Dublin, and I recently met a Sein Feinn member here in Brisbane whom believed in the more difficult work among my writing. I have been openly informed that my ex-partner has been disconnected from his original ancestry in Ireland by cause of what he has done to me and my children.

I connected with the oppressed and marginalised in the British Isles whom might be able to comprehend what it is to be an Indigenous Australian, because what was Merlin if not an Indigenous Englishman, and a Magi, and who would I be as an Indigenous Australian, who has European ancestry, if I had never connected with the best of the British. “Magi” is that term recognised in many places as describing the genetic difference of being like an Australian Aborigine, and is who the wise men wer whom visited baby Jesus. It took me a bit longer to learn about our shared Muslim ancestry among Europeans, but that is an essential connection in this story, and realistically is why I am alive to tell it.

My own personal ancestry includes the heritage of the spoils of the crusades, inclusive of marriage to Muslim princesses. Saladin’s curse is my own to claim blood right to access the beneficience in Allah of. If “It’s Time” was ever real for the Whitlam Government, then the idea that it is now or never must sustain currency. The showgirl style election campaign of the “It’s Time” victory was one of the most absurd condundrums of the whole situation in which we Australians, with Indigenous memory and Dreamtime, have been marking time for a long long time. That we are on the brink of reaching the hour of judgment, which has always been a component of the Australian Dreamtime in the minds of those whom could never forget a past in which there were veiws of an impossible future, only has sense to the “It’s Time” showgirls within the absurd impossiblity of time multiplied by being Australian. We Australians who know that the hour of our eternal judgement is at last arriving, just have to mark the occasion with our very worst, just to prove the point that we are all here in this mess together. Believers and Satans, kafir, migaloo, and uneducated Nomads, it’s time for socialism, and time to show off that we all know it can’t get any worse. But how can we have let it from the 1970’s then? The answer is because Whitlams success was through the worth gained in blaming.

So I was at a Corroboree in 1988, and so what. The work of such things goes on in our collective mind all the time, without the currency needing to be known by everybody whose life is effected. The whole of modern civilization is regulated by that exact same comprehension of the Dreamtime which regulates Aboriginal culture, but of the mainstream western European oriented industrialised money driven societies, the mechanisms are not usually knowable, and are bogged down in the crimes of those whom steal of. The occultists work with many of the same premises as any Aboriginal Corroboree is based in, but who are they when they are at home, and will anybody work with believers to weed them out of the Masonic lodges. The Australian police certainly need to be stripped down of the benefits they received from any occult work against the real tradition of Aboriginal Corroborees. As for where there are any occultists connecting with Islamic teaching, truthfully they orient more and more all the time in the Rosicrucian sort of direction. That direction any of us must know only as well as need be to avoid, and weed out from among whom we know are well, including enough whom are known as Masons of one form or another, and whom are truly waiting for the return of King Solomon.

My life went on regardless of being at a Corroboree. But I was effected. For better and for worse in good times and in health. My socialisation was still oriented to the predominately white group of peers whom I meet in my teens, but soon enough I decided to have children while still young myself, and without a Husband. I made this decision based in a certain fear that I needed something to oriented my wants back into the ground with. My peers and I had all trained our minds in feminism, and so a boyfriend was sort of obligatory if we were to avoid the lesbian cadre who seemed only to feign being socialists.

It was as though I was seeking to undergo an initiation of sorts, the sort which childbirth always is for females. I was factually instinctively seeking the means I needed to cause fear in myself of the consequences of that life I had already lead. Already I was inextribably off track, before 1988, put off track by all sorts of odd and unnecessary interventions of interests other than what any teenage girl should need to have to deal with. Actually I suspect it was the feminists who had put me off track. Somehow I knew that a solution was to make my life difficult by having a baby. Fortunately I knew better than to resort to that other strategy that youth at a loose end often resort to, of taking drugs.

We all need something to remind us of the fact that one day we will die, and that life should be hard work, and when drugs are the only avenue in lives that have been given the false orientation of money, then I guess we must face the fact that crime is governing society. This facing is what is being done by many people of my generation. Why is it all too easy? Go to school, get a job, get money, buy and house and car, have sex, make a baby if that happens to be the case . . . . nah, nobody really buys it, do we? That is not what reality is made of, except for the baby bit, and, ooops if you look a bit further and buy drugs, or buy Religion, then you find that there is death to fear, and so sex is to fear, and so then what are we alright, and why are we even alive?

Does anybody exist who believes that it is all about the house and the car? Well, now that I mention it, these things like Corroborees and Prayers seem to regulate that for many vacuous folk all about the place, the house and the car are life, and at least they aren’t at war in that case. But hang on, or are they? Is this seeking a house and a car just as good as the neighbours are, causing overconsumption causing wars? Causing drugs? Now who are the dudes who are selling the drugs and what do they know about this house and car business that we don’t know? Well, what do they know? And WHY is this description one of a not so uncommon a processing of the life story of very many Australian youth.

Hang on, why, we have gum trees and kangaroos and stories about you and me as well as about old blackfellas who are almost, but never quite, dead and gone! And look, those blacks aren’t even almost or nearly dead and gone, but alive and well and asking to be listened to! And look there is another new book that historian Henry Reynolds wrote telling us all about what will make our life difficult without the drugs. Why not find out about the crime that causes black deaths in custody rather than the crime that causes drug sales? The result is the same wisdom in a healthier body.

I guess that I am saying that I believe my self to be at the front of a generation of Australians whom are just not able to accept that everything which has gone before must amount to us being ordinary run of the mill mainstreamed bunnies. (Even if some black Wirrin casts a magic spell on us and turns us all into rabbits in the end.) The generation in which, by questioning why, when it was all given to us on a platter, we learn that by expressing our difference from each other and our difference from our parents, and our difference from the rest of Humanity, we become more and more alike to the rest. Every generation rebels, but now, we are being force feed methods of rebellion. So far force feed that rebellion becomes no longer running away into star studded rich kids ville, but falling into the gutter in self righteous, self certain, ascetic denial, of that non-reality of consumerism.

We want it real man. And that is what we are getting, but if only we can learn not to believe that we need money. Meanwhile all the so many whom are struggling to know what is real which they can not yet find, are getting nothing at all but more and more indebted to their own truth in Allah, while those whom try to prevent people like me from being and perceiving are causing us by their methods of prevention. There is a hole in the ozone and history is telling us of all of its causes without telling us of a solution which we can earn the right to buy with ready cash.

There are Aborigines who fought for and won some land rights and we can all sing “My Island Home”, in knowledge that the worth in which it is sung to the world at the Sydney Olympics was a very hard won battle. We know that even if we are not feeling at home here on this land, even the racists know that Aborigines are winning something real and that the suffering that accompanies that win is so far into the terror of the modern situation, that even now today, when many of us know about the bloody frontier that Henry Reynolds writes of, The Great Australian Silence has not been displaced. We can just hope for a minute, and to every minute, that the cult of forgetfullness, Henry Reynolds also refers to, is gradually diminishing all the time, and that its eventual finish will be that hallmark of the victory of Indigenous worth in every land mass. Then will black silence be the victor. The silence born of determination not to repeat any story of needless suffering. We are a whole generation that cries. We can hear and see that it is inevitable, but ‘please let it be there is a way to lessen this fear of the future for me so that I may walk into it in Allah’s Grace’. A generation who can never escape. A generation for whom the tears well dry, and whom find, no more terror from that idea of an hour of Judgment, but truly only relief. Are we not the inevitable pre-requiste?

I have thought about this: that to be published as a writer I could omit the fact of being a believer in Islam, the fact that within the esoteric heart of Islam many Aborigines here in Australia can be rightully regarded as Mujahid(een), if only we spoke Arabic to know what that means. It sure puts the frontier conflict into a different mental category. Who is Robin Hood? Who is Maid Marion? Who is King Richard and Friar Tuck, in the real legacy of the fact that the crusades were ended by Saladin marrying his daughter to King Richard of England, and within that condition, as any Corroboree repeats the best of the Ancestral past, so is it already that historical re-enactment societies repeat crusaders battling with broad swords and chain mail. Who will mind the Spiritual welfare of us whitefellas, in that condition.

The condition in which Terra Nullius, enshrined in the Australian Constitution, is the Invaders breaking of the conditions they themselves set for us. Conditions Prayed about, but regarded by most Arabic speakers as being American rather than Australian conditions; while some Americans try to prove that we are an inept race in Spiritual management for failing to have enforced that our country is Governed by a Treaty and a Bill of Rights, so there for the claim upon Saladin’s curse is their right.

There is an oddly not quite right, but heartfelt regard for the Indigenous peoples whom have experienced invasion; and which is causing a strange set of conditions to migrate from America back here into Australia, which are foreign to us, yet not, is that the world of Islam is weighted with Aboriginal Australia, and never could have been any other way. The Indigenous Americans are perhaps only more duplicite than Aborigines are about what to do with strangers, regardless of their Religious orientation.

The keep ‘em happy camp is really not what Islam is notorious for falling into, but there you have it, Arabs fall to traditional American strategy, and how many are fallen? Peace and Love man! The felling of Islam the Glorious, Islam of knights and of round tables, Islam of Gothic Cathedrals, (of which there is one here in Brisbane which even has a crescent moon and star marked into the masonry); Islam of the Masonic Temples and Tuetonic knights, and there is that story of Jesus in Islam, only wrong somewhere in falling into a Rosicrucian dream of living only for death. Rosicrucians have no idea of the real Indigenous worth of North America which Islam went there to fund unity in Allah among. We all know that it is the Christian Churches story, rather than the Muslim story, which took that peculiar turn of falifying that Trinity is three blokes with fancy stonecutters hats and silver rings handed out by Hitler, but do we all remember yet that it is Islam underpinning the truth in Jesus?

Only Islam sustains in completion that book learning by which all Aborigines are going to become enabled to pick up the pieces and make the world real again; that is, if you believe Islamic Prophesy, and apply it to your own life rather than as other minds might suppose it is best applied. In fact, that is the best any of us ever manage. Indigenous Americans whom found their own successes in that, are factually no less enabled that I, or anyone, by the worthy might of Islam. Regardless of if any Australian might be more correctly enabling Islamic Prophesy, you just need to remember, of worship in Jesus, that where Qur’an (Koran) says to decry those whom worship Father Son and Holy Ghost as through three individual Gods above God, that we are to sustain belief in One God whom is Allah, without decrying Jesus, whom walked the Earth a man and a Prophet, whose teaching is perfect and sound, and exactly as any good Muslim knows through the Surah (chapter) called Maryam (Mary), about the Prophet Isa (Jesus). As for Iblis (A Jinn whom used to exist in form of Satan), why He is the redeemed because Jesus showed us how to deal with the Satan. But these are things that Aborigines were already aware of, why our mythology is full of stories of the redemption of the fall. We only need to learn how far ahead it is that Americans had taken these stories, after all the Church of the Later Day Saints (Mormons), might no like informing us this, but they do read Qur’an. It helps to know these things while in Kinship with a Warlbiri Baptist Congregation, as has my skin name, “Nungarrayi” been given me by.

So I should tell then only a little about my certain knowledge of the what of how American Indigenous Animist belief is different from ours. It has a difference which serves to protect children. The good and the innocent are regarded in a higher state of being sacrosanct than here in Australia, where everybody takes their own share of all ills. In America, this status has been wrangled from the sinners, by misinforming them that they might get stuck as an animal forever unless they protect the little children from any animal self. The hard part for Indigenous Americans now, is that they realise that children are already willing to accept portion of the ills, and we are all beginning for children to need to be conditioned so as to; but there are old dudes, like Johnny Cash in that song “Hurt”, who want to fight that process only because of time honoured belief that there will be no way out unless some of us never fall down. Whereas here in Australia, we all did it together all along, all diving in together, and so are tempered to associate with shaytan through only getting bodily ill from. Our higher mortality rates are always in the cause of Spiritual awakening and salvation. Poor Johnny Cash, who at least felt safe to tell us his fear, in certainty of his innocence to his fear. It’s alright dude because “We’re all in this together”. Lets hope that the Australian pop music industry has no further pressure to be paying out to America, and we can again be hearing our own Dreamline tunes in the radio. Essentially if that Ozone hole is going to close, the world world needs to listen to that tune. In that tune lives the hardest of every of the stories this essay tells. It is a blue tune of the Crow, and a women whom helped me prevent being socially identified as a prostitute, not for my sake, but for my children, is who has caused that it is a story to end, and once here told in that context, has no further right to be. Some stories are just too hard to be known in, but more especially when already a mother but never cared for by any Husband.

I could deny being a Muslim to my own benefit, but I won’t, not even, these days, for social crediblity among the socialists. Or I could deny my Aboriginality, and perhaps then be more readily supported in becoming a published author by the Ummah of Islam. Even were I a black sister my whole story could carry more crediblity than is carries today while I write in this white skin body. Black Muslims are at least an existing social category, as are black indigenous Australians, and even many black Muslim Aboriginal Australians, like Anthony Mundine. But nobody can quite recall yet how a social construct of a white revert to Aboriginal Australian Animist Islam could ever even have entered our sensiblity of what is possible.

It is a bit of a big hat alright; the embodiment of the general world veiw that can be carried into any employment situation is as an initiator and a big picture thinker, with a kind of para-legal social work skill set. But us whY-generation seem to be who prostitue our self without getting money. It is either that or prostitute our ideals for money, because when you know why, there is no space between, and between a rock and a hard place, when we find we can live without prostituting our selves, we will already be hereafter in Jannah. Is it that we could see a solution to prostitution through prostuting losses? I Pray not, but fear so. Where are the qualified doctors who are also qualified lawyers up the rungs of the social ladders we are falling off, those whom might have been able to validate our worth. The worth of an ordinary Indigneous Australian Muslim is next to nothing when not accepted at the local Mosque; except that as a white skin Indigenous Australian Muslim, Praise Allah that there are Traditionally Oriented communites whom can not but accept me into their reality.

That the scene is set by the fact that it ain’t going down well in court where I am wrongly branded schizophrenic for associating with blacks, is the scene of inevitable affiliation between Aboriginal Australia and Arabic oriented Islam. The psychiatric profession seem to be trying to communicate that their hands are bound by the insurance industry preventing them from forensically giving me a clean bill of health, and off the record, why yes, I could just do them the favour of getting out of their office since there are so many other patients more needy, but in a medico-legal report, why there just isn’t any industry. And secretly the local member of State Parliament had tried to fob me off to the Federal Attorney General’s department in the situation of the total failure of the Australian Nation State and State of Queensland, to provide for me, as every other Government pensioner is provided for, in every responsive legal case, a legal aid grant of aid. The medical reporting I need has a starting cost of $10 000- that legal aid are not yet paying, my family will not, and the Aboriginal legal service refused to contemplate without my certificate of identity, while the Aboriginal health service which provides such certificates, tells me their doctors can not write any material which might be used in court.

And every time I try to turn back and look to method of getting out of any of these socially constructed identities, I find that the way out is the way back in, over and over again. I have been studiously writing letters to any person whom might have the slightest interest in my predicament, now for over three years. And I write, and write and write, and have already wrote a book of some worth once it is made more, more, well, more properly like everybody else’s book is I expect. Maybe when I sue the forensic psychiatrist, whom legal aid paid to report on my ex-partner also, but whom just believed his lies, I can fund its being published as I want the full story to be knowable. And there is James Blunt singing in the background reminding us all of war and love and lives gone by uncounted. I have known a few, and know the Hell that will save those I love true, and we all have listened too; But all this, is nothing but my own need to communicate, just one working single mother, just one believer, just one individual whom could be anyone. Why me? Is it only because I am told the hard truths? Swallowed the shock, and knew.

I know that my own story is really worth nothing of material wealth, unless it builds upon the work of authors like Henry Reynolds whom have already built a professional basis of work to set the historical records straight. Without work like that of his authorship, I could not have been told, nor would the audience be enabled to be told by me. My self as I am here at a cross road, after having persued the life of an ascetic since I was a teenager, most often quite without comprehending any Religious reason; I am now in that position of realising fully a need to be valued in the material world. Yet will not become a mother whom works for cash, because I can see only further detriment to my children in that. How many years wages saved to pay to be able to win that my children live with maternal love, has no worth if that love is being used to earn the money to prove that I should not need to. Especially in a country in which legal aid grants are provided to respondents whom are governement pensioners, except it seems, to who nobody wants to believe can be real and sane, while having been told lies about to the extent that what I have perceived is that the whole system of legislative justice for the poor crumples and falls in cases in which child rape is suspected. I am no child rapist, and the courts have no right to suspect such, nor had my children’s father a right to tell his lie about what his Irish father did to him, as though it was me to my son. And the forensic psychiatrist had no right to believe him over me only because of the regulations in the insurance industry.

As a writer I seek to report factually. To report facts that will later sustain any historic worth, I report from either other non-fiction writers of credible witness, or from my own experience. There in am I finding that I just keep on returning into an Aboriginal cultural regard for the science of defining what is real and what is not. What is tellable and what is not. What is the true historic record.

Our own story which we remember, each with our own sequences and plot, until we have that under out belt then we are nobody to be reporting upon the history of the world as it effects all persons. Really there are many Muslims whom specialise in the history of historic records. Every word Mohammed spoke in twenty three years is recorded and the records are sustained within a thorough system of constant scientific enquiry. Thereby modern Islam is accessible to those of us who were raised with only a modern western European oriented frame of reference of reality, and also to any Traditionally Oriented Aborigine who could be bothered learning either Arabic or English or any of the many other languages which Qur’an and all Ahadith are put into.

What was it that Mohammed said about a mountain, and it is Uluru? Will we know that answer when Qur’an is evidenced in Indigenous Australian languages, or are we already knowing, and are all our Indigenous languages already experienced the full influence of Arabic translation back when the world of Islam was new and larger than it is today. Regardless of which I plough on directing my writing at small elite audiences in various contexts and with various concerns. I wrote for Aborigines for Muslims and for the others forced into false insanity. I wrote for criminals, poems which string together their wedges of reality, but place such back into the world of Aboriginality and Islam. I wrote affidavits for court.

“They”, who control courts and crime, don’t personally like me much but seem to believe in my poetry. It became a criminal commodity for a while aligned with specific strains of marihuana available among specific social sets. And the poems are having portionally that effect I wrote them for, they are fishing a few true believers out of the criminal circuits. Social trade circuits equatable with brain chemistry circuits. Believers who cry, but we thought those who had the poems were true, to my reply, but I wrote them just for you because you were falling to criminal minds.

Believers with horror stories of the continuation of the frontier struggle but within our very homes, in our minds and bedrooms. One close Aboriginal male friend was attacked by an axe-weilding maniac of a white European girlfriend, why? Because she noticed that he was taking his certainty of her eventual death into his own so as to cause that she can not prevent her own death being in full retribution. He is, by enduring equitably to her death within his own, preventing her from trying to escape the inevitable by trying using black magic. Now hang on, how many of the texts which Henry Reynolds refers to are describing that same cause of violence? One black man murders one white man, and sixty blacks are massacred, and is it the same story as one unsupported suicide bomber flying into a building in America, killing a few too many folk whose relations find that they are unable to find out what has become of the ghosts of the dead, and begin to panic about retribution and hell fire and brimstone.

In Islamic teaching the whole regard for Heaven and Hell is somewhat simpler to negotiate, but only in Indigenous comprehension is that simplicity given a basis in reality. That grounded reality of every step we walk and the feeling in our feet, is not book learning, but reality walking.

Let me now re-orient this essay back into the actual story I am telling, of my self as a white Australian reminded of my knowledge to the tune of Henry Reynolds plea in not having been told. The truth in respect of the relationship between what I write and the Animist Religion of Aboriginal Australians, and Islam, Christianity etc, is possibly the bigger field of the discussion that I am trying here to launch for broader coverage, but not that which this essay is meant for to tackle. Where the subject matter converges with that larger field is only really indicative of my own personal involvement in the modern internal Islamic debate about what the realisation of Prophesies is potentially actualising.

Rather here let me only highlight that you don’t need to be able to give testimony to Prophesies to be able to engage in academic study of comparative belief systems which are comparative outside of the context of only comparing all others to that which deny any reality in “otherness”. So let me then here add to my observations of the Reynolds book in this respect. Oddly enough I can help the Islamic orientation to my observations, so you can properly regard me as the subject of brainwashing, since my neurones have all definitively been through a wringer.

There is a quote from a colonialist voice whom spoke in opposition to the brutality and violence of the frontier. On page 104 of “Why Weren’t We Told”, Reynolds quotes: “Already the evil leaven has begun to work. . . .” Now what is not told is whether the writer of 1867 was well versed in the Gospel of Jesus. The chances are that the original writer had a better Christian education than had Reynolds, because the term ‘evil leaven’ has a very specific Biblical reference which is associated with the causes of racism. The Bible passages are from shortly before Jesus announced to his disciples that to follow him in life they must follow him in death. He had earlier warned them to beware of the yeast of the saducees and pharisees. There is a danger here to suppose that Jesus was being racially biased in telling to avoid certain bread. Yet this is the nature of the phenomenon of Satan, as a psychological inevitablity of confrontations which define reality, in which our identification with that confrontation defines who we are. In confronting Satan we are forced to confront the fact that to disprove racism we can only manifest aliken to those whom truly enforce negative racial discrimination.

Satan exists were we notice that death might prevent killing, and where we notice that getting a head full of lice from blackfellas prevents racism preventing adequate inter-racial communiction, and where eating one communities yeast might prejudice them against us and us against them. The full teaching is rather that Jesus teaches to avoid trade with persons whom practised black magic. That is the fuller teaching which is available through study of the Prophesies of Mohammed in conjuction with Gospel. Yet was it also a teaching available to that Colonist whom made reference to the “evil leaven” in respect of a racial divide? Now again we need to be careful that the term ‘black magic’ is not becoming associated with persons of black skin. Rather it has a very specific definition. Sihr is the Arabic.

Sihr is of work that attempts to place a negative consequence into the future of another persons life, and by causing that the positive consequence they have worked towards is being already benefitted from by a third person. It is part of any real Religious teaching, including that of Aboriginal Australia, that every negative consequence must be relegated to the past. Punishments are all only to enforce that we never forget that fact. The opiate of masses and masses of us, at its very best.

All true Religious teachings are designed to orient the mind away from black magic and into a frame of reference in which the future is, at all times, able to be held in positive belief. Sadly it is that within British Canon Law, the legal term Terra Nulluis not only describes a world without Humanity, but implies that black magic is apparently the only means of any persons whom might happen to be existing.

It is harder work that it might seem, to be forging a new social identity, an un-before-realised forumla, of what is an accepted variety of normal adaptation. I am after all only normally adapting to the material conditions in which my ancestry portionally defines me as being a citizen of my Nation, but not a Human in habitant of it, and in another portion defines me as a product of long enduring Jihad, of the Greek is particularly strong, but also German, Jew, and English. Can I normalise my process of adaptation into your mental picture of reality? I am barefoot with a magificently valuable gold charm braclet on my left wrist, and two Land Rights flag anklets.

Yet my hijab is no less adhered to than that of many European aristocrats, some of my ancestors among. Like the British Royal family, in one branch of my own family in my Grandparents generation, with their mother an Ettinger, hats on heads was the order of the day all day. The Queen of England certainly still covers all her hair with veil if going out in public without a public appointment.

I had a Dream once in which the Queen features. It is worth telling. Though I like the valuation Reynolds places upon his Dreams of Aboriginal figures, which, to my mind, are the Quinkin, the Dreams I tell of are different. I was having an unusally vivid Dream of the television programme Absolutely Fabulous, when approaching the punch line, the cleverer character became clearly manifest as the Queen, and I realised my self as a Jennifer Saunders whom was the brunt of the joke! I was equally affronted and bemused.

Then I Dreamed of my brother telling that he had had a Dream of being locked in the Queen’s dungeon with an array of spectra at his disposal. Hmmm, I wondered. I place my skill to the test. I have a series of Dreams negotiating the fact of general revelation that the culprit who caused the Queen to accuse me, was connected through my having been punched in the nose at the Aboriginal tent embassy. There is a strange Buddhist Monk connection too, for thanks is that. There being a thread through the punch I received of mulifaceted connections to my brother.

Thereafter I am Dreaming of being a character who is attending a function at Buckingham Palace, but I just can’t keep the Queen in belief that I am me. One minute I am my mother, and then next a leader at the tent embassy, and the next a consultant to the tent embassy. Then shortly later I am Dreaming of being one among seven whom control among other things the Olympic rings, and whom are deciding to read Qur’an now and again. What was it again, four were the four winds, and I am the Earth, and there is a nazi theme to the story, and all seven, plus secretly another one, are all Dragons. Oh, and one is that Knight I once met, a Sir William Kirby-Jones, who had startling revelations about what the medical profession can provide. (Thankfully the Dream in which an Australian High Court Judge featured was contextually unaligned.)

Well, actually I am really a Basilisk, the snake mixed with a rooster, but I don’t tell anyone since they have taken me for another being among these windy Dragons. The black Olympic Ring’s worth. But these are only fleeting moments of many Dreams most of which I am not who is remembering, not vividly at any rate. I only provide the influence of my own luck by birth.

Now whatever you may reckon about my psychology in light of these particular dreamings, this has to be somewhat of a record of the currency of urban mythology, and my Dreams are inclusive also of the Quinkin, and The Jinn, and the Angels of Allah as described in Qur’an. There are those who work to the Shaytan also, and the Sihr they do exists, all among the dreams experienced, but as what I recognise to be not of me, not of the real Dreamtime, and so not for the evolution of Mythos, and that is my advantage in being white, that I am not quite so afraid of this choice. And Iblis, why He is a good friend of mine in the Dreamtime. Me in my good Hijab, except brief moments of the Basilisk’s eye veiw. In Allah accounted.

However, let me not commend this path to you, since it hurts the heart to have to find what the Europeans are dreaming, and most whites whom are decent will close their eyes to. Mashallah to my father’s ability to provide in of the Sphinx, and Inshallah no more Aborigines will be trying to turn themselves into, as we our animal, is an entirely different kind of Dreaming. The skill of the dreams of the European aristocracy is the field in which we Australians are in Jihad. And it is a skill which has combatant only in Islam. In Islamic prophesy we have the battles of Gog and magog to learn, and in that can win the internal Jihad of good Dreamtime regard.

But who will believe in this as a social identity? I guess perhaps I might become just an ordinary old social justice author. With a twist of course. The crediblity of my story here is certainly entirely built upon the self-referential style of communicating, which is essentially of that the Dreamtime. And yet not once have I spilt that milk of why our sacred is in sacred language. That the sacred has been spilt, will be recovered only through realisation that blaming who spilt it did cause the spill. But that is quite enough of this comparison between my Dreams worth note, and those Henry Reynolds has us knowing.

Before departing this inter-cultural mish mash of dialogue about dreams and the real Dreamtime, I am obligated to share somewhat of my own milk and honey of belief. There are rules. The skill to which I have refered is not that of a dreamer. It is the skill at discerning what in every aspect of any dream, is verifyable in the reality of what each our daily experience is; and then, learning how to value each of those real pieces of the images of life. Foremost in importance is the knowledge that to work in any Dreamtime culture we must recognise the psychological function of “imagination” is not real. If being realised, is only so as to realise a heavier account in Allah, and unnecessarily so. We might notice any image internally in our mind, but need a scientific explaination of such so as not to just discard it as not of the real, or realiable world. Consider this significant fact. American popular culture is full of efforts to live true to dreams and affirmations, while Australians will regard any Dream which is experience external to a scientific cultural explaination which can be proven, as not of any worth but in illness.

In valuing each other and our own self, while considering Dreams, we must accept that portions of are the awareness of the inevitablity of death, while other portions are teaching us. Perhaps the many Dreams of Indigenous youth among criminals are because we are needing reminding of the worst we can become? What we are not enabled to realise of what we Dream, will in the end be causal to the deterioration of our physical living capacity. Either you will suffer to, or live through, every minute detail of every thing you ever Dream. So clearly the skill is in discerning, what am I Dreaming of real consequence, what is that which I will die for, and what live to? Yet how many of us can access any control of such whatsoever.

There is a process in Islam translated as “supplication”, which might help any interested readers to follow up on. Its companion Prayer is a Du’a. We Aborigines tend to be more inclined in the Du’a form and really rarely engage in supplications. While supplication can be a form of Prayer made incompatible with Aboriginality by lack of knowledge, it is also a more thorough concept of working to the most efficiently rationalised uses of Dreams and the other results of Prayer. Aborigines teach it best, but because we also teach it within the rule to: “Go with the Dream that wakes you up.” Let that Dream’s internal meanings guide your own interpretations of the day to follow, then perhaps be aware of why Muslims aid that process by prayer. The meaning might not be clear, but even to wonder upon it has a healthy consequence. Supplication relieves you of any obligation to follow the Dreams which are in that unhealthy direction in time, but so does Aboriginality by a different mechanism, a supplication to your own self, if you like.

To aid your own concept of Prayer there is a rule: Never consider and never identify; except in consideration of a Man whom has proven himself to you as a trustworthy and adept teacher in your own life.

Be very considerate as to the minds of all other persons, is the real lesson of the Aboriginal Dreamtime. Yet also that you are barely able exert any control over your own mind, little own the minds of others. Think of it like this: If we believe a person has done wrong; then we manifest that belief also in their own mind by any efforts of their consideration or our identification; but if we believe in reality, we believe that eventually we all pay our own way at our own rate, thereby, what you notice of anyother person’s errors, you might be best off regarding as only uncertainty, because you are not right yourself if you identify with that person in belief that they know they did wrong. So maybe its time to give the bad guys a break, and really they take all the breaks regardless of your sake, most of enough at any rate. But can you here learn to know that only the bad regard others as bad. Only a criminal will seek to find criminality to blame.

In considering other persons minds, also consider that the Major Histo-Compatiblity Complex cells, which are empirical evidence of Kinship. Proving that Kinship is real. I will not here describe the science, but that it exists in the field of immuno-genetics, yet let me describe the psychology. While I Dream actively in words; others may in pictures or postures of movement. The mitochondrial DNA identifies the mode in which we are intellectually able to manipulate what is in our mind in Dreams. A persons skin in Kinship is named after a psychological capacity. We might all see pictures and find words expressed and move and stand around, but have only one part of all that in which we can actively manipulate our own self, and children might only rarely practise even that small amount of Dream manipulation, because their mother can override a child’s wants even and especially in Dreams. A child’s mind can really only chose whether or not to believe their father. But the only way any of us may exert control over what triggers our mind is to intervene with our voluntary muscle control of posture. That is, if your Dreams are like a video game, and you have a control stick that only operates one of your control functions, which if you are a child has an override function, then there is one other limiting condition, that of your behaviour. You Dream from among the range of your own experience. That is, unless you are ripping of children by buying an override switch on your controls to take the control of a child’s controls away from their mother; or, unless you receive of better than you own behaviour through the supplications of other persons prayers, and the Du’a in your prayers, which is effective only ever until you prove your ability to work to that pattern, or not.

Critically what you embody in your daily life, of all that exists in your unique Dreamtime, is that aspect you are engaged in proving repeating of. The subconscious makes associations of cause and effect by which we actively interpret our reality, then in small parts we are caused to behaviourally respond. Perhaps we do not recognise any connection to the Dreamtime. To be in the Dreamtime one must be accepting full responsibility for every fact of your own Dreaming. Dream it, then if it awakens you, wake in it. Know of, yourself within it. Responsibility for fact is responsibility for where any when every portion of every Dream which your mind contributed to of in active belief. Enact any posture which is manifesting a Dream into daily life, or refuting that it should enter your reality, but rather be a dream of the world only of death, and then your repeating existence in that pose, in moment after moment, is causal to further Dreaming. No Dreams occur that nobody enacted.

But beware of this, since small parts of the images of Dreams might have been belonging in different places, and that is the key to why reason is not what we aim for, but rather feeling how. Eventually we will pass through all the moments and places and all the invasions of minds and bodies and places will resolve into reality Dreaming again. A Corroboree is essentially a corroboration of all our participating Dreamtime minds. What is your frame of reference and what is mine?

Most of all what is that Dream, which this morning, awoke you from sleep? Notice it, then notice the sunshine, and know it your own mind “I am one with my self in this.” As difficult as it might be that it is, but it is. Normally the action is of the past for females and the reception of the future, and for males the reception of the past and the activity into the future. What we receive of is what others regard of us, both true and false. But what we might in Dreams actual seem to be, is always associated only with our own behaviour, and that of every sexual partner, and theirs and so on and so forth. In this, remember not all are in such good health as to know what our minds might manifest, but that if we blame them who are wrong in the Dreamtime, that condition worsens for them, and thus for us mob also.

Think through this again: if we believe a person has done wrong; then we manifest in their own mind as reinforcement of only being a wrongdoer; but if we believe in reality, we believe that eventually we all pay our own way at our own rate. What we can manifest is belief in a positive outcome for all people, even when it might not be that immediately happy feeling they seek. The Dream that wakes you up, for many folk, is the one which reminds them that death will be. Positively, we can only condition our minds into accepting the cycles of nature and the atoms and molecules and cells of our physical body being facts of.

Here is the most important key to sustaining Islam: “Inshallah” meaning only God willing. I Dreamed this that Insha Allah I might live it. Meaning that only when every force in nature united is compliant with that Dream as the course of action suited to the best providence for real life. If I Dreamed it inshallah and then was thwarted in enacting it, whom ever thwarted me has an account owing me, but do not charge them that since the thwarters of Dreams are who thrive off being blamed for their deeds. As our subconscious is inexplicable, and must remain so until the world is re-aligned with the cycles of nature, so is the full effect of behaviour upon our subconscious, but that causal to not being able to interpret the subconscious. So the best we can manifest is to notice how our behaviour, and that our those who communicate with us as their reference, is effecting many person’s Dreaming. That is what functions like running a newspaper are all about. As the subconscious is really the higher conscious mind, but sub in disease only, what we can manage to land of our individual Dreamtime, is really only our own share of the bill for what all of us have robbed from the Earth. Earth that is, who is holding our Dreamtime true, by our very blood being red with iron oxides magnetised to.

Insha Allah, your blood might become magnetised to believing in the substance of Dreams and Prayer.

Among elders of remote Aboriginal communites, in which Christianity is already, (mostly), quite assimilated into Aboriginal Religion’s Animist Tradition, whether in open or silent practise, the ‘evil leaven’ is quite well able to be known as the specific black magic which is causal to an apocalypse. But a causal factor, and not the ultimate cause, since that must be of positive consequence. This understanding also has significance to the fact that among Aborigines in the past, and also today, there are choices made to intermarry with the white community so as to instill the ancient law of inherited reciprocal obligation. That is, Religious Law adhered to by all three Abrahamic religions also.

I wonder how many white skin Australians, like my self, and perhaps Henry Reynolds also, perhaps, are inheritors of that obligation. This is an obligation which seriously indents the action of that ‘black magic’ or rather should we define ’sihr’ simply ‘depravity of mental intention’, which was causal to the extreme violence of the frontier, and manifests to this day in prisons, on the street, and inside of houses. Within this obligation Reconciliation must be an absolute commitment. In reconciling accounts, I wonder about how our own individual comprehension, of phrases like “evil leaven”, will impact the whole account. As a Muslim I might account the quote differently to that way Reynolds quotes only because I perceive reference to prophesy, which is a comprehension of inevitable, or confession of inablity to have prevented; that is to say, or I might not be any different in account.

Often the account of belief in Prophesy is miscomprehended as a fatalistic acceptance of atrocity as inevitable. In fact, the teaching of Prophets was always simultaneously a description of the worst known that we all might need to endure, and the method by which to practise self discipline, so as to not be causal to the occurance of. So if I can relate that an association with “evil leaven” is an association with the preconditions of an apocalypse, and at the same time, I am agreeing with Reynolds that the conditions being experienced by Aboriginal Australians on the frontiers, then in History, and now in many persons minds, are as devastating as an apocalypse; then I am obligated to provide certainty in how to bear witness without being culpable. That is, I can tell that these things were bound to happen, because of capitalism not being curbed, but that we each have a daily choice not to be whom is fallen to taking advantage of. Once upon a time these things were not inevitable, but came to be so.

One opinon about why is because of what caused anger in Jesus when he threw the money lenders out of the Synagogue. Worse Prophesies became as the depiction of the solution because of those whom kept on lending for profit, and those worse prophesies were accompanied with the instruction to give in Alms of any excess rather than to profit by leanding. So you see, Religion is no more fatalistic than Marxism. Both Marxism and Religion provide the information necessary for the solution, within a comprehension that we can not in minority prevent the social conditions we are witnessing, but must work to try.

Essentially there is no Religion which could have caused me to be a believer, if it was not also supporting a Marxist analysis. Working for a better future is what we are all Humanly engaged in, regardless of whether it is Religious zeal, or Marxist zeal, or belief in ancestral inheritance, which motivates us to work. Believers are by definition, not whom ascribe to any specific belief, but whom work within the knowledge they can not avoid believing in,

Here is another example from Reynolds research which he quotes on page 114 of Why Weren’t We Told. “They say things like ‘it is well to draw a veil over the dark side of the picture’ or ‘there one would willingly draw a veil over the sad picture’. Now what attracted me to these quotes is two things. First is that in the second quote ‘there’ is used within implication that other-where, one might not want a veil drawn. Therefore I can take the quote as equally anti-Islamic to being anti-black, or anti-Aboriginal.

Clearly what springs to my mind by the language in use is the Religious phenomenon of Hijab, commonly translated to English as Veil. Actually it is a Judaic and Christian phenomenon as well as Muslim. The veiling of the vanity that is what appears to please. That is, the concealing of the true appearance of positive consequence. The covering over of reality so that reality is not subject to Sihr.

Obviously Aborigines were not clothed like Europeans, so how can the term ‘veil’ have application. The reality of the full Arabic meaning of Hijab, and many Christian concepts of ‘to veil’ as a metaphor, is that the term embodies a definition of a mental state as well as an external behavioural expression. So ‘to veil’ the mind is to prevent oneself from imagining what one’s appearance might, or might not, be. It is that mental state in which a person ‘lies low’, is less active, and therefore more difficult to track down.

In general there is regarded that the battle front between Islam and those whom claim a Christian identity, but whom Muslims regard as non-believers, (unlike other Christians whom might more likely be Orthodox), is operational in respect of what we appear as at all times. Whether or not we appear in another person’s Dreams, is the reality of whether we are adhereing to being veiled. That is the understanding from any Religion. Yet also who we might choose to appear alike to, is of our own Jihad. Or whether we appear at all, and when we have our actual hair covered, then we are better enabled to prevent other persons appearing alike to our own physical appearance. In asking any Muslim to remove the veil, for a medical examination, for example, it must be anticipated that the internal hijab will be in need of support to stay intact.

Consider that the quotes Reynolds took those statements from, might in fact have been made by superstitious folk whom were afraid of the black community being silent, or afraid of the black community invisibly active in the Dreams of white people. Reality is that the intention of the black community has always been to do just that. In fact, when women were sold to white men, it was to cause a genetic manifestation of the possibility to work upon the Dreams of the invaders. Veil or no veil, hijab is sacrosanct, even when its milk spills.

So then who among us descendents of intermarriages between invaded and invader, is able to stand up and be counted again alongside the black skin people whom have borne the brunt of the violence of invasion. Stand up as an indigenous person committed to stabilising the society of the invaders back into believing in being a land based economy, rather than a fiscal profit driven economy? In my mind Henry Reynolds counts as one, even if he knows it not of his ancestry. Most such marriages were accepted in Traditional Aboriginal Law, but not recorded whitefella way.

Reynolds is still not in that generation in which I have grown up, of knowing up front, of having been told, and of having had all illusions of the worth of the nation of Australia ripped from us in our youth. Yet his work was necessary that I could grow up knowing, I encountered in during the Bicentenary, when I was nineteen. I hope that this workalso can inform that process of inheriting the enormity of both positive traditions from many places, and terrible acts on many parts, which are all part of what makes us who we are today; because the processes of learning to hear when we are told, are essential to our capacity to withstand what we hear. For me, knowing is knowing so far into the stories of this land, that we can not silence our certainty of belonging to the black race and so belonging to this land.

Just yesterday I was waiting for the public phone near my house to become available and another red head girl was there also. We talked. She said something racist, about blacks being propagators of violence. I disputed her and established a point that what is being done to black men in prisons is so extreme that they are often forced into a delusional state of mind thereafter, and that is why they are hitting women. Then she revealed that she, like I also, have had our children removed only by cause of associations with the black community. But that the black community will not include us under the banner of being effected by stolen generations, yet still will regard us as of Aboriginal ancestry and therefore within their culture and obliged to their culture. It was sort of fortunate that the woman was a red head like me, because I could cause her to relate to the black skin experience by remembering the difference which red heads experience.

The reality is these days that many blacks whom have themselves fallen for racist arguments of the premacy of black skin, are regarding red heads as that necessarily, lower than they are, step in the social structure, from which to get a step up in the social conditions of racism. But not just red heads so much as any body whom can be identified as being of Aboriginal descent as a white skin person. Well, that is not such a bad position for them to take in order to get that step up which is still long needed even today. In fact the reason we intermarried was to enable that exact thing to happen, that we whitefella Aborigines provide a shield from black magic for the black community. But this is where the whole picture potentially becomes quite terrifying for all of us. What happens when there is sihr projected from the black community onto the only whites whom will help blacks? We did not intermarry only to be persecuted for becoming white. What about my children? Why am I socially trashed for telling that my children were removed because I identified remote Aboriginal Ancestry, but trashed in the black community more so than in the white? I am a person whom offered to help build that step up in the white social structures for Aborigines, but I did not offer that it be at the expense of my children. And like the other red head, though I had the sense not to tolerate such behaviour, it has been inimated to me that since I am white I am obligated to let a black man hit me. I never have let a black man hit me, and used all my social worth in any way to prevent, but I have been bashed on three occassions by black women who only had the gripe that I am white of skin, but blacker of mind than they, and was not giving in to their wanton corruption. There was no frontier in my mind in which that could have been a reality until that day, but now that bloody frontier of Reynolds writing is a frontier in which I struggle to know who the enemy is. No black woman can tell me that I am wrong in my work to protect my children from black men displaying drunken disrespect for their mother.

I have also been victimised by mainly white organised crime groups whom are renowned for the know how of enforcing multiple personality disorders. Their attacks were less violent, more subtle, and more insideously harmful. Thankfully they are not really very good at knowing who their techniques just can not work upon. But the worst truth is that among those groups of criminals, it has been the work by black skin folk, on the almost bottom rung, in enforcing to my self the ritualised abuse which accords that, in general, their bosses regard me as being controllable by them. Thank Heaven that in my own case I have found that every Aboriginal man whom got so close as to be able to try the known abuse techniques on me, was also in fact very loving, sought to obtain my permission first, and was complicit in feigning with me the success of the technique where my permission was not granted.

But here I need to be very careful as to revealing what we were together complicit in. My self and, by now five, Aboriginal men, whom crime gangs have sent to bother me, have complied only in pretending that we are both willingly criminal, and only by cause of knowing that if not, it is likely that a white rapist could be sent to hurt me seriously. Why? Is just because I happen to have grown up knowing. Knowing that as white Australians we are complicit with violence against blacks. Knowing that as a white Australian of Indigenous ancestry I will be a voice who speaks out in defence of black skin persons. Because I have been told I am being socially relegated into categories of deviance. But not just because I was told, but because I listened and knew that the plight out Aborigines is real. Thankfully so did that white rapist, the second among two who set out on my trail to hurt me, actually believe me when I deciphered the Surah The Elephants of Qur’an for him to fear me by.

Why me? My life story. Why is it me, whom as a white skin girl, has had Dreams of being a half-caste Aboriginal child whom was abused so far as to never speak a word all her life. Why am I Dreaming that? Why am I Dreaming of being a half caste Aborigine whom as a mother was forced into prostitution and had my children stolen? Why aren’t I like any other apparently ‘normal’ white Australian. Even being like an ordinary white Australian hippie single mother would have me been better placed than I am today. And I get a feeling like my whole life is a repeat.

A repeat of what to who and when, and can I work this life I am leading into a more positive result that what I fear has happened before. That this is a time in which this is happening to who I am, as a well educated mainstreamed white Australian whom has been provided with every possible educational resource within which to know, that according to Australian legislative justice they can not sustain taking my children away, is that this time the story has to change, or prove that the whole of the system of Justice of legislature is corrupt also for those whom it seems to best serve. This time I will have to change that story of children being stolen, because I must, because there is no future for life unless we end the stealing of our children.

Killing times are better than raping times. I believe that children are hurt less by war than by removal from a loving mother. I have been provided also the education within which to know that there are criminal, corrupt policing, and corrupt government, forces, whom are evidenced to be working alongside so-called Christian Churches (among criminals it is known that the Salvation Army are the only major Australian Charity who do not knowingly harbour child rapists), and whom are the inheritors of the ideology that sustained the removal of Aboriginal children, not because of real difference of skin colour, but because of the process of land invasion, as Reynolds describes the causes of the violence. Why then are those inheritors of that legacy still today fighting. Have they already not won the land, and have found that they have enough of it and were tried in court and found guilty of need to return some of it? But still they continue their frontier violence.

There are families in whom the men are bashed and raped in prison to such extremes that they fear not hitting their wives, and thereby their children are removed. That pattern is factually systematic and the system is knowable in evidence only among criminals, and those same criminals have threatened me that if I make statements to police, they will make a collective set of counter statements which accord false evidence of insanity in me, so as that my children will not be returned to me. Why? What is their interest in the removal of my children from me? Is it truly that they wish to prevent me imparting to my children the serious relevance of inherited reciprocal obligation?

What else do mothers provide children with which they might want to prevent? Mothers provide children with the locks of what is inculturated into a child’s mind as to how to discern reality. I have sought out the evidence of why my children were taken, among those whom watched me to prevent me winning the court battle in its early phase. Among those whom followed me and had tried to rape me to prevent my self decency so as to prevent that my children be returned. I have learned that there are criminals whom organise with police protection into persecuting Aborigines also for the reason of trying to prevent the assertion of Aboriginal culture in the Australian mainstream.

The causes of their want in that is tied up in Religious interpretations. They are persons whom expect that if one group of people are obtaining any sort of Religious, or esoteric, or Urban mythology, type victory, that that victory can be prevented if only a different set of persons assume the stories of whom is living the experience of re-creating the stories by which the Human Mythos is eternally maintained. That is, in any life cycle, many sets of persons will live through a set of events resembling by sequence the events of Qur’an, and of any Indigenous story cycle. The songs of a Rom are sung so as that we identify with our own character, in patterns which have known and knowable successful outcomes. These cycles repeat over approximately one life span, but also in 100 year cycles and 1000 year cycles. Now we are entering into a 1000 year drought so the scientists inform us, which is evidence that the period in which a change to the locks upon the stories might have been altered for the better, (for example locking us all into the Muslim economy) is coming to a close. There is a climate of belief among criminals that if only they prevent certain things from happening, they can prevent that any Animist Religion can be knowable as compatible with Islam. Bottom line, that is what is motivating those whom are empowered to prevent that a bloody frontier continues. That the expense of learning this simple fact has been that I am a person whom had every reason to expect that I will be proven correct in the family court, but was repeatedly prevented from, and so sought evidence as to why I was prevented, (a white neo-nazi began to follow me one week before an important court appearance and raped me so that I was entirely disoriented when I needed to be in court; but that was only the most overt of the efforts of criminals in my case, and I believe that many woman, black and white, whose children are taken from them, are similarly being persecuted by the criminals whom control brothels and whom sell that they have caught out mothers who can be blamed for raping children, while they pimp child prostitutes), and found at the bottom of it all, are an assorted group of individuals whom weild social power, and whom believe that it is in their interests to prevent social belief in the combination of Australian Animist and Islam, since then they might been caught out in crime. I’ll tell you what, my interest in Islam was only academic until I was raped, but after I was raped, I decided to overtly express my self as a Muslim.

My situation seems too hair-raising to have real credence in the Australian mainstream. But what I am trying here to communicate is that I am not the only person in this “Y”-generation who was told and who just could not buy into the corruption. But we are an ill defined bunch, us of the first wave of this awakening to the reality of what our forebears were deceived of. My peers include folk like: a self identified post modern punk in his fourties doing a PhD thesis; a couple of law graduate school teachers who went out bush to run a two teacher school to give their own four children a decent chance; a Maori women who I met while she was sleeping on the streets, and whom was forced into prostitution, and then forced to have a baby, which was forcibly removed from her, to cause her muscles to orgasm tighter by the fear for her child, and whom is thereby regularly sold by those whom control her life to men whom want to be made to seem innocent of child rape, and whom has helped me more than most, only by believing in me, and in the fact of my children’s need of me; a black man who has had a small cut made in the urethra of his penis while he was drunk, by a gay man whom believed that such a form of sado-masichism is the truth of what a Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal intiation is the cause of; a bunch of folk generally regarded as ratbag hippy ferals whom stave off poverty by selling marijhuana to those other folk whom want to know, but whom them themselves become caught by the delusions which criminals want us to swallow; an Australian soldier whom returned from the middle east with a morphine addiction, and whom had been emprisoned and tortured by the US army after he refused an order that he must shoot through a baby in the arms of its father so as to kill the father by killing the baby; and the list goes on and on through the experiences of the marginalised but informed members of this society. In this predicament, how can I not speak out on behalf of these other true believers whom I am describing. Can you think of this with me: I am told that my children are removed because I expressed ideas not socially acceptible; I am told that if I refute my experience and tell that all I believe in is wrong, and take medication which I have no need of, that they might consider returning my children; I believe that my children need to know that my belief is soundly based in real living experience so that they may be able to grow up safer from such social conditions themselves.

There is still that sad part about those whom I am a peer with, that too many have been dependent upon criminality, in that too many were drug addicted. Too many whom have not yet received of the esoteric knowledge I have fallen to, but were seeking exactly that when they took drugs, and bought drugs from criminals who seemed to know esoteric Religious truths. This has been happening to many of us. I fell so, but not to illegal drugs except rarely and certainly not such that my children could be removed on that basis, but in accepting homeopathic medicines being poorly prescribed by a person whom hide his belief in crime with knowledge from within the center of esoteric Islam. A person about whom I learned more than I had known once after my children were removed and I was surrounded by only criminals whom seemed so strangely alike to him. In fact I began to dissociate my self from most of my peers in 1999 for the sake of my children. But then it was that there began a systematic abuse of my psychology. As I withdrew from exposure to other persons behavioural abuse, a whole system of psychological abuse ticked into place and I started having nightmares of being responsible for all sort of horrors that I had no experience of an had never thought about ever. I had been unconsciously prepared by criminals to prevent me from speaking out if I found them out.

Their strategy is that known among Muslims as that of Gog at magog, in which we are prevented from reconciling with one another. Each of our patterned responses has a patterned reconciling reply, which can be forced to trigger an opposing response also. That is why there are high rates of drug abuse and domestic violence among Aborigines. Usually, in this modern time, it is such behaviours which are the cause for children being removed, and given away into the foster care of non-believers. But in my case, they had to work harder and caused a string of misinformation surrounding my mental health status so as to make it look as though my children were exposed to crimes that they have never been exposed to. By the time my children’s violent alcoholic father had refused to sent them back to me from a holiday with him, I had make a series of sweeping lifestyle changes over a three year period since separating from him. I had proven my self a good cook by doing the family Christmas all alone one year. I had worked at Tai Chi and lost much weight, and am now a skinny person. I had worked for and been granted permission from the ACT Department of Education to home-school my children in conjunction with their continuing enrolment at the local primary school. I had begun some personal research into Aboriginal Kinship systems aligned with the experiences of my youth and later anthropology study, and in that was working to provide into my children’s home-schooling an Aboriginal cultural component. There weren’t dirty dishes around the house any more. I had told my ex-boyfriend, the children’s father, not to come back from the drunken sordid episodes he habitually displayed, and then had become able to begin to scientifically research a set of ideas which I had been exposed to through interest in alternative health care practises, and began to learn that what I was orienting to as worth valid scientific investigation was Islam. No wonder the bad-guys don’t like me. I was simply just living proof without even knowing it, that Islam and Aboriginal Australian Animism reconcile well.

Eventually I even uncovered evidence as to the cause of the sacking of the Whitlam Government within criminal social contexts. Should I just tell it, perhaps not since the stuff of life is not so permitting, and the reason is nothing that the best of us had not already suspected. One of the girlfriends of one of the criminals who did the dealing, while knowing it was to bring down the government, is who told me, and she herself had no caution about whom knew what to what effect. But why then is it not she under police surveillance while I am? Not to mention the fact that when I witnessed who is selling drugs to those whom sell through connections with the Aboriginal tent embassy in Canberra, I only told whom needed to know so as to prevent any more Aboriginal youths from going there to their detriment. That I noticed that there are black Aboriginal Australians whom are quite mixed up with the corruption and the fact that I would not let them blame me for having white skin, has had me branded as an out and out racist pig-dog. Although that branding has been really very convenient since it enabled me to obtain a large degree of evidence from within organised crime which I might not otherwise have been privy to, and then feed that information back into the Traditionally Oriented Aboriginal community. Most of the evidence I have just sort of fell into my lap, and I have not actively pursued evidence until after my children were removed. Those whom benefit still today from stolen generations undid themselves by taking my children, because now I know, and I am who will tell. However, I still need to tell it like it is: “NOT WITHOUT MY CHILDREN”. No success is worth the sacrifice of any children.

Is that not always why wars happen? Those whose only means is crime invade social structures, and then land, and then when they invade our families and minds we decide that war is preferable. Do not then condemn those in the middle east whom fight, because their children are not so exposed as ours. Their widowed mothers need not fear being set up to seem unable to care for their children, and then exposed to rapists whom will force them, by anal rape if necessary, into seeming as though mothers are guilty of child rape, but only so that the rapists can sell children in brothels and pornography on the internet. I have been followed by a man promoting himself as a salesman of child pornography whom is a bit thick and is used by Brisbane police to tempt new customers, but whom the police protect in his own photography of children. The police had me marked as a potential culprit of such crimes because of a family court case, but the man who followed me had me marked as a potential victim. These events were all the prelude of general harassment from neighbours, to being raped by another neighbour, in which I narrowly escaped extreme violence and only because there is a Mosque in the same street as his.

I will not tolerate this nation state, which claims ownership of the land we are born from, being caught red-handed in corruption at the expense of my children, while everybody else sits back in triumph, ignoring their own complicit condoning of Government, without helping me save my children. Yet neither will I tolerate being complicit with pretence about when legislative justice is working effectively and when it is not. How many more black mothers are there whom will have been silent in their evidence so as to protect children than there are us white mothers? How many of us whitefellas were the produce of those half-caste women whom “passed as white” after Federation only so that the children could be raised within the world of knowable maternal love? Yet here now today, is it not the case that I can not get my children back UNLESS I speak up and am believed? While I am threatened constantly in both black community and white, that I need to be silent or can only cause further harm to my cause.

If the facts I relate are real AND my children can be returned safely, why then all our sacrifices have been worth the Earth.

Well, I guess that in general there remains only to be said that I certainly am ever accepting of the fact that most black skin person’s lives have been far harder to live than mine. That is the very fact which drives this essay, is it not? Or is it the fact that the Indigenous mentality of people belonging to Earth, is needing a white skin, as well as a black skin, expression, in modern Australia. In my mind learning that second fact is dependant upon believing the first. Perhaps that is simply because we whitefellas would be seriously wrong to leave the whole mess of responsibility for what has become of this land to blackfellas. To leave the entirety of the work of Reconciliation to blackfellas is equally wrong. But also to put up with being assumed to be a racist only because of having white skin is also wrong.

Let me outline here what I have witnessed in this respect. Once I was a panel member of a committee deciding upon allocation of Government funding for Community Housing. Unfortunately the housing body whom I was a member of had an application under consideration and so I was disallowed from contribution to any of the decision making. The senior public servant involved discriminated in favour of an Aboriginal housing group, but it was not a positive discrimination. She decided upon the basis of fear of being labelled as a racist if that group did not get the funding. She spoke that the Department would not want to be named in any media as having discriminated against an Aboriginal housing group, and therefore it was necessary to give them the funding. She had been verbally threatened by telephone with such media attention.

But the situation was that the whole committee, of which I was the only community representative, had been working very hard towards developing a model of funding provision in which funds were only provided to whom could substantiate that the infrastructure was already in place within which to manage the funding. Additionally there is another organisation funded cyclically to provide that infrastructure so that no group ought to miss out by being underinformed. Now I guess that perhaps the Aboriginal organisation could have argued that the infrastructure providing organisation was not letting them equitably access the resources necessary, but that organisation had sustained a record of excellence in qualifications of employees work history of working with black skin people. The decision was made to provide a grant of enough money to purchase a few houses.

Then within the next round of funding the grant was removed because the Aboriginal organisation had not managed the money transparently and within the legislation. So the Government was called racists after all. But with the additional leg of racism in which an Aboriginal group were given a negative experience of managing Government money. I know first hand what quality of experience that is, because as a youth I participated in a young women’s group whom successfully applied for and managed a youth grant with which we published an anthology of youth writing. The positive quality of that experience can not be underestimated.

Clearly I am no stranger to the advantage of being white. But somehow I am finding that it is an advantage which is only sustainable as a personal benefit, either in actual ignorance, or within a real racist mentality. Now my father’s voice comes to mind from the future in which he has met the hour of Judgment as a believing Muslim, and he simply reminds me that my “somehow” is REPEATINGLY how. I am trapped into repetitions of learning the advantage of white skin, and then giving up, and giving away that advantage to persons generally disadvantaged in social institutions by cause of being black. Yet what advantage in being white is left me, now I am denied legal aid wrongly, and denied use of the Aboriginal legal service.

Now that I am informed of the interests which are causing modern day stolen generations, I am finding that a bizzare series of administrative errors have been delaying the progress of my family court case. But who would I be to associate such administrative errors with court house security, or even believe the letter I have from a solicitor describing that it is not uncommon for the family court registry to loose documents as occurred in my case. If I made those mental associations externally, why then everybody would regard me as completely balmy, and the children’s father’s case, that I am a paranoid schizophrenic, would be proven. Despite the mass of evidence to the contrary. There are now three independent psychologists whom tell me that it is preposterous to believe that I have schizophrenia, and that I have a case to take to the anti-discrimination commission. While there are a few psychiatrists whom have told me that belief in Aboriginal culture is tantamount to schizophrenia. (Are they relying upon Terra Nullius or something?) But in the full picture the tag of schizophrenia has no legal jurisdiction over me because I have never been diagnosed with a schizo-freno-form disorder for any continuous six month period. The legal advice I have is that I need to pay for a $10000 medico-legal report before even considering any further legal action or I might harm my case. I begin to see the picture of what is being done against black Aborigines.

The picture of police getting away with murder and not calling it war. The picture of Australian soldiers white and black, having been pressured by the British and Americans, into proving the hard way that we already know how war prevents black magic. This is the truth of the Australian legacy. Our ancient indigenous warfare was so well managed in social justice that it would not be recognised in the modern context as more that a back yard barbeque brawl. Is the legal system really trying to regard all belief in Aboriginal culture as schizophrenia, and so arbitrarily dismissing evidence as has been done in the case against me? Actually I have a mild post traumatic stress disorder that becomes active when in association with certain persons, but which is effective at providing me with appropriate fear levels for watching my back among criminals. It was caused only by two accidents. One my own fault at three years old in sitting in a bucket of hot water when told not to sit there, and the other a natural disaster in New Zealand that got onto the front page of the Canberra Times, only because there was not much else newsworthy that day. Even the psychiatrist whom states that belief in Aboriginal culture is insanity, also says that any level of insanity I have shown is no reason to have removed from me my children.

Perhaps then regard that I have used the advantage in being white so to find out certain facts which all the Aboriginal community might benefit from, if only I am believed. Here is one which I just alluded to. There is a certain form of sihr, or black magic, which is known to be only deterred by war, as exemplified by that horseman of the apocalypse. Aboriginal Australians are defined by Terra Nullius, as inept at detecting that form of sihr. Thereby, we are being described in all our work sustaining to Peace, as fallen. Associate this to the fact of how many Australian soldiers have been sacrificed unnecessarily in strategic risks, and also in the “veiling” of the frontier violence, as though no blackfella ever fought back. As though we Aborigines are too afraid of retributive attacks to have thrown those spears.

Above all else what I can communicate about Australian racial relations is a matter that will not receive the immediate popularity that it warrants because of endemic racism prevalent. That racism of sihr, in which there is no positive future outlook. I observe that when ever white folk like myself imagine that every black skin person is more deserving of a hand up then ourself, that we attract to ourself, mainly those black skin persons whom are setting out to rip off white skin people. There are those whom really don’t care that a hand up is not a hand out. Mainly but, they don’t care because of the extremities of abuse they have suffered, and for generations preceding; often having lead to extreme use of drugs, and in that is the real difficulty that we are facing.

Drug use is not a black problem, it is a white problem which the black community is fallen into through their attempts to find out the causes of so as to eradicate. But drug use is a problem which thrives on black skin folk assuming that any white skin person is indebted to them. Conversely to the statement I made about whites trusting every black person, it is that when black skin communities believe that every white skin person is indebted to them, they begin to attract to their own self only those white skin persons whom are actual racists and are very much indebted to them. Pray for this to be the lesson to take from this essay; a lesson in what it will take to make Reconciliation a reality.

Reconciliation of white and black Australians has been a long term broad based goal of many Australians. It is only the occultists whom have openly refuted the social justice model of Reconciliation as a realisable outcome. Of course we all already know that blackfellas must not, and will not, trust every whitefella whom comes along with a hand out, and that whitefellas must not, and I believe that enough of us will not, assume of any blackfella that they are not deserving of a step ahead being given at our expense. But we must learn better how to draw that line. The line exists in respect of criminal action. That is the argument that black Australians have been winning against whites, and it is the argument which must be sustained. So in that, I will not shy away from exposing that there were drug users at the Aboriginal tent embassy whom believed that I deserved that my children be stolen only because I am white. They are wrong and they will learn without me needing to draw a gun. But they could never have made any impact upon my life if they had not been supported by a large contingent of whites whom are the real migaloo, and who are knowingly setting up the black community to hate white skin folk, only so as to prove evidence of reverse racism, as though such excuses their own actions against blacks. I have met such racists and know.

One of the the real racists was recently exposed in the Brisbane Courier mail, a Wayne Smith, exposed for having been collecting and ’squatting’ various website domains, in which he had been placing nazi propaganda so as to try to effect a false belief that the Australian Liberal/National coalition are neo-nazis. I guess he hoped to bring out any actual extreme facist sentiment among their constituents. It was that he showed me he was squatting ‘Bindi Irwin’ dot com, and I exposed that fact becaue I knew that he had affiliations with those whom promote child pornography. This story is related only to the fact that those whom seriously, and religiously, believe in nazism, also believe that Animist religion is a belief that happiness is only found through abuse of children. That is the sort of idea which has currency among the criminals whom control much of what is being traded, both legitimately, and illegitimately, in Australia today. Among criminals, among police, among prison security, among the clergy; so how far have we really come since the policies of Federation. This kind of dangerous idea I am referring to, is regarded among true believers in Religion as the basis of black magic.

The worst of its currency is among those whom want to portray the methodology of pleasant gain through mass hatred, as though based in actual religion. That is, those whom practise the occult. But, among Christians, among Muslims, among Animists, Hindi, Sikh, and Buddhist, how are any of us to know who are the true believers, and whom are those opposing true belief by engaging in research of Religious merit only so as to try to prove false ideologies such as racism? The answer is to engage in your own scientific research. That is the methodology which attracted myself to Islam, and it the methodology by which within Islam, I am in open disagreement with the mainstay of that powerhouse in Mecca, but only in a few minor matters of Reconciling the fulfilment of Prophesy. It is a disagreement which has absolutely no consequence to any person whom is not a Muslim true believer; and that is the case because it is a disagreement which has absolutely no consequence to any person whom believes. In our Prayers we each find our own way for Allah is ever safe.

Some modern black consciousness oriented urban black Aboriginal persons have accused me of being their worst nightmare, and I guess this essay surely proves that I am, at the very least, my self comfortable with mental patterns of cyclical terror. But also already I can prove among believing Muslims, that if I am one man’s path into perceiving terror then I can also manifest being the way out of. In truth I prefer to be regarded as only adept at pointing out what among your own, already existing, nightmares, are the reality that you will eventually die to end every trace of.

Is it a Quinkin nightmare or an Afgani heroin trade one? A girl already emprisioned under a mountain, or the world trade centre collapsing? I will let you choose to choose your own way in belief. Perhaps it is not larger a fear that of the sting ray that took Steve Irwin? I wrote an essay with a reference to him because an Aboriginal girl had told me that he is a relation, and I sent it to him posing the question, how about it mate, we could all begin to identify with those being most harmed if you begin to. Not to claim any debt owing against oppression, but only in pride. If Steve Irwin had faced us in that honesty, then we could all be enabled to identify our black hearts without risking being defined as insane, and the few who have tried so far have been. Will your own fear be recognisable in your mind is as much noblity? But perhaps you prefer to detail that the only fear is from my oddly retoric essay.

With all the hell that is being forced upon our race, how many among us can still believe. Believe in our right, a right and an ablity, to continue believing, and contribute in belief, and believe that our own self has a God given right to chose no less than to be a believer. Believing in no less than every miniscule moment in which we observe any worldly empirical evidence that any matter of Dreamtime is already realised.

At the peak of my disempowerment among urban black Indigenous populations, I thought to my self, guided by their demands of me, best just to let it be. Give them what they wanted from me, which was for me to stop telling the world that I also am an Aborigine. So I told rather more about what I am believing in, that what I biologically am. I communicated more commonly with Muslims, since my beliefs are totally compatible with. But many Muslims just could not believe that what I believe in is truly Muslim. The Why of that is a very complex scenario, which this essay has often alluded to. But the bottom line of it was that there are Muslims whom could not believe in what I know of the truth of being a Magi, which is an Arab term for the biological status of the Aborigines.

I began to bludgeon many Muslims, through very popular international discussion forums which are strickly moderated to Shari’ah, and in consequence I find that my own Aboriginal identity is stronger than it ever has been. It is the nature of Aboriginality that denial of it reinforces its instinctive survival, and I can be in no doubt, that for me, being an Australian Aborigine, is permanently.

But ought I not also provide here a bit of the details of why I am made so very dislikeable among many, whom surely I ought to be seeking the approval of as a white sister? In truth I might normally deny you that knowledge, if I am certain that I am a plaintif in the situation. That being because black Aboriginal Australians have received far too much damnation for racism against whitefellas which was never warranted. Thereby in this situation, because I mention that such has existed at all, I need also mention that the facts to the matter bear no guilt upon the part of the individuals concerned, whom I have observed to be being set up but actual far right wing, neo-nazi, criminals, whom seek to portray black Australians as culpable for their own racism. That told, now there is a safety net for the black community in my revealing what has, in truth, happened.

It was one of those real mistakes which are sometimes made, and in which each concerned party had not the full picture. A mistake of assuming to know what is not knowable. I had been, since 2001, enduring a process common among those whom first enter the Ummah of Islam, in which the individual is pressured into mental acknowledgement of their worst fears, and then those fears are sustained in their mind within a condition of respite from being given, only when the person refutes any sinful want. That is, it becomes so that the only pleasure that is extractable from life, is that pleasure of being a self decent member of Human society by having refused to act upon a myriad of wanton desires which might creep into the mind.

The technique is startlingly effective.

It is a technique which is also utilised by traditionally oriented Australian Aborigines.

However, in the very first aspect of the process, what the person’s actual poor desires are, need to be found to be mentally confronted. In that part of the process Islam as it is known in the Arabic language, uses a startingly different process to that of Aboriginal Australians. Well, in fact, the Aboriginal process is the larger startle.

What happens in that process is that a person is just let to enact, within community approval, that which they want but know is wrong. Whereupon nobody will blame them, but every body will know that that behaviour is the key to turning that person into an animal at the point of their own death. The teaching is made available that we ought to be fighting that want in an individual internal Jihad, and that resistance to wants is aided in many instances. But for an Aborigine, some wants you just are not going to get any community help with. However, nobody is meant to ever reinforce those wants either. That such manifests in the modern context is the work of racists to cause that Aborigines seem to be in greater fault than is real.

What happened was simply that a young Goorie Gentleman was testing my self so as to find out what I was really wanting. What would be fun for me? His timing was, by no fault of his own, entirely disaligned with that of the Arab Elders whom were, at that time, monitoring my process from afar. In that Arab Islam process I was at the position of needing to enact self denial of wants. But the young Goorie had assumed that I was only denying being in any want, and that the process was a Muslim one of preventing me from being imposed upon to acknowledge in what aspects my behaviour might be alike to an animals. That is, he was investigating whether I could be wanting fun in what he was wanting fun in, so as to confront our fear of death together in learning what animal we each are to become upon our death.

Actually he wanted to marry me. But eventually was unable to trust that I am also within Aboriginal culture. Not only because of this situation, but because he had been repeatedly misinformed about me by those others in his community whom were finding that their drugs became cheaper if they rebuked my Aboriginality. They turned out to be buying drugs from the same sources as persons whom know my children’s father, whom has removed my children from me by accusing me of insanity for ever having associated with any Aboriginal man as a prospective Husband.

What could I do in the situation but reconcile the esoteric teaching of Islam with that of Aboriginal Australia. Even though that work has landed me only the title of being an Islamo-fascist. Actually it is extraordinarily interesting in the world of the psychology sustaining to socialism. That reconciliation is immediately recognisable as the same mental process in my own mind, as was my first learning of the mathematics of the theory of the tendancy for the rate of profit to decline. In general the psychology of theology is fascinating work, and as I have told, give me Religion anyday above heroin or other substance abuse. Even the hunger of Ramadan is better than good Christmas over-indulgence. Not many folk know that heroin is an addiction to fear, but that is why they keep on doing it. The pleasure is not what they are seeking so much as to avoid the crap that soaks into their bones if they fail to sustain the key of remembering what there is in reality to be afraid of, which heroin can amply supply. Marx’s critique is so valid that I don’t wonder if he had ever been prescribed an opiate.

Am I a white racist who is adopting to herself such a large field of identification that I am scandalous in exposing the extent of theft from the words Indigneous folk and true religious believers? That is what most folk arrive at in trying to place me. But I believe that there is only one way to combat racism. By accepting in dignity and self certainty the sanctions existing within the culture of the persons with whom you share what you can see as an external biological difference.

That is, if my behaviour in mainstream Australian culture is sanctioned by a supposition of eventual death being caused by in the situation named A, but not in the situation named B, C, or D, and then in Indigenous culture I will be sanctioned at death at point D, but not point A, B, or C, while in Islam I share with the non-whites of America I might be sanctioned quite heavily at point B, then I’d be rather bereft if I lived only to C. Many persons would look at the situation and think I must be culture hopping, when it A think like an American, when in D think like a white Aussie, etc. But truth be told nobody would ever be able to trust me then.

Truth be told is that to effectively integrate one community with the next, and to inter-culturally communicate, we must accept the sanctions of every culture in every context. So here I am sanctioned a A, B, D, and low and behold my Vietnamese neighbourhood want to sanction me at C. So I am getting dead all around. And yet I live. But that is for the time being only. The truth of successful inter-cultural relations and Religious integration, and all work against racism, is that we must accept the negative of one another’s culture or we only end up even deader.

Deader than dead, now that, well, that, that is my own account in Allah and it is not between you and me, widespread though it may have been supposed to be. Allah is a word for God which means essential accountiblity; the essential accountiblity of everything existing and our own being a part of; that mental state in which we can be certain that it is not our own individuality which accords that we are sanctioned, but rather a oblique and emorphous everthing that is life. Will you put your hand up with me to receive the sanctions of the black indigenous Australian community? Then learn to love existing in the commas by the Grace of the endlessness of everything existing, by which you are able to be certain that we are not alone in life. Even in the valley of the dead we will remember.

What this essay is about is the spectrum of how and why blame goes wrong. I have individually lived through a myriad of instances in which my being alive was faulted for the crimes of whom-so-ever faults me. Usually those tricked themselves about who had blamed their lives wrongly. I have lived to tell that I believe in the story about the Maori prostitute, she told me herself, but that I believe is because they have tried to do it also to me. Why? Because the criminals and corrupt police who want to set up good mothers to blame, are also those whom are profiting from children. They impose upon the mother’s distant and removed child, a fear of their own device, which the mother locks up tight when raped so as to.

The biological normality of being able to forgive children is what has been raped, and forced to become the forgivers of every customer who hates any child. By which the profiteers hope to sell to their clients a supposition that they will be permanently cleansed of acts never to bear remembering outside of the death they bring. Is it any wonder then that Humanity has begun to Dream in Hell.

So let me tell you a solution already long learned well. Each one among us is, for better not worser, enabled to never blame another person again. We are all learning that to even believe no other person ever did wrong, of course within protecting ourselves from what they fell into wanting of wrongs, but to believe that they did not do it to themselves, is ever more beneficial in outcome, than to try to find fruit in others mistakes by seeking blood in the herds of stereotypical appearances we all formulate. What ever it is that might likely be, or not be, is because we can see what we are wanting that which is worthy of our mind, which is to find the causes of what is wrong with mankind. We buy because we want to find, why can they afford not to need this thing, and so sell.

Fundamentally the economy of buying and selling is in every ancient cause of all negative racial discrimination. It is not that the discrimination is caused by the differences, but that the differences are caused at the outset by a discriminating outlook. But when we fail to be accurate in what we discriminate, the we fail each other in respect of biological race. Negative discrimination in respect of appearances, or of our general ability to discern what is true, which by rights we should be able to show accurately upon our faces, is what has caused every problem of sterotyping blame even within races. If ever has been there time it has been time to stop blaming and make reconciliation. Given that a few cents worth is worthy of words of wealth, how about we all try a little harder to give instead of to sell. Perhaps when I notice any fault, if I only give away what I see, the we really will be that egaltarian society Reynolds aspired to in his youth. Give it away to who, must be who will not blame whom ever it is we see any fault to, neither our eye perceiving. Reality’s fire burns away that desire to find what is wrong rather than what is already right. Remember that when you accuse you are communicating only that you also are culpable, and then gradually will we be able to see only true.

OK, so we know that if racism is apparent that the world is going wrong, and we know that if substance abuse is apparent the world is going wrong, but what else do we really know? I could tell you all about how there are American Muslims struggling to reconcile Islam with their own indigenous belief and practise, that they are struggling to hold accountible all those fundamentalist Christians whom have joined in with portraying Islam as all that is wrong with the world, and that those very same Christians are both sustaining the present day ruling sect in Saudi Arabia, and also critically holding them faulted for specific sectarian angles upon Islam. Not to mention that they are accounting for themselves as those meritable with the worth also of Aboriginal Australians. Where is all that money coming from? How can we possibly begin to conceive of obtaining any money by knowing that they are wrong while they simply continue to extract wealth from our own labour by falisfying corruption among us? This is the real terror of us all is it not? It is the key to why Karl Marx once wrote that Judaism is the Religion of the accumulation of capital. Not that it is either an American key specifically. Every nation has its loosers.

Meanwhile the poor Arabs have been so busy proving their Humanity that they forgot only to notice that we are all in this natural kingdom of Earthly vows together. Each to our own nature in remembering that Jahannam, that terror of hell which we are taught in Islam every possible means to escape, is no more or less than the transition of death, but within conscious mental, that is Spirit, function. To an Australian Aborigine the transition is far more acceptible, but no more so than to any believer among Muslims. Surely one day we all become transfigured through the grave and worms, microbes and airbourne bacteria, into a new physical formula of living matter. In Aboriginal cosmology it is that we are turned into a bird or a rock or a plant or an animal. The very good even turn into stars. Then again may we have that rare chance of being gifted with the opportunity to make a real go of being true to our essential nature and love of life, as a Human. One day there are enough of us who make it as a perfected Human form, so that socialism will happen, and that is the truth of every prophesy of every real religion. I never get why the socialists don’t like the believers in God, because if we can’t make the Revolution inshallah (in the will of Allah), how can it?

Allah knows we all Love the Arabs, but they haven’t yet figured out what Qur’an teaches us Australians to learn from Spinifex and Termites, about reforestation. But it is time to reconcile this story. Reconcile Heaven and Earth into Hell to pay? If so, it is truly only to find that Hell is really only that burning of death, and is emminently endurable. Even as Mr. Hawkings maths has already proven, that a particle of light may exit a black hole, only so long as it has been recorded entering the black hole. A perfect reconciliation of pure light, with nothingness. Or is it rather that nothingness is only that fact of being not sure when is now? Reconciliation is. Reconciliation of Torah and Qur’an began in the Warsaw Ghettos, inevitably, but that knowledge is only accessible in the esoteric Kingdom. Reconciled into no less that what Jesus taught. Three books are one, in Hope, Faith and Love, One God, one book of his record of the passage of time. Reconcilation of black and white skin is only that you are breathing. Reconcilation of the invasion of Australia with our Australian indigenous worth, and find yourself living in a sane black culture, Dreaming Forever is Today.

iii Turner, Howard, R., University of Texas Press, 1995, Science in Medieval Islam: an illustrated Introduction.

(if that’s not enough then here is dull poetry to make you want to write yourself into my story and a poetry editor, and if you are lucky, or unlucky as your luck is yours to mind, you might even find, some are vaguely related to money.)

Have I any better rhyming
To put my pen to
That writing about my own poetry
And why I am writing it to youHave you any better method
For learning what we are trying
To get these few words grafted
Into your mentally sublime findingThis poem you are reading
One to know why
I am methodically feeding
To your mind my wry style

Justice For

The Leaven is Justice

For this Societal Veil

My identity as a socialist

Is never so pale

As when frightened by loss of

Our communal concepts of

Justice

In which lawyers

And doctors

Are denied common ground

With each other

And with workers

Of lower classes of pay

When we can be classless today

This is the lack of Justice

In which is born two way

Two way white way

Two way black way

Two way business identity

Two way capitalist veil

Two way communally known

Two way shown Dreamtime way

Justice for today

For everybody knowingly

Certain in why

That we find

A Dream has not

The count of an act

A white man not

The mind of a black

So what measure can be

That in the real Dreamtime

Not that pie in the sky

When we were Dreaming up Antarctica

All day frozen and dry

Belief in Social Justice

For the penguins don’t I

When they need for Justice they die

Justice for Aborigines

Justice for workers

Justice for the poor

Justice in education

Justice in belief system

Without Justice we fall nigh

And might die in a lie

Social Justice is no Justice

Without Justice for all

Out of that Sky with a pie

Of a hole in our mind

Dreamed upon how many lifetimes long

Of reparations from capitalists and racists

Is the way of our lesson in

Social Justice

Must begin

It is never being denied

The will to workers

Work for our whole life

Not for money and lies

Justice for mind

Justice for society

Justice because it is time

To bake our own bread

No more class pies

Lets have real Social Justice instead

My Five Sense Worth

Crumbs

Crud

Mud

Bud

Sheep

Shonk

Bleat

Bonk

Meat

Wrap

Feet

Flap

Street

Feat

Did

That

Sheep

Meat

Cheap

Trick

Sheep

Shank

Sweet

Panic

Sweet

Chick

Cheep

Stick

Neat

Prick

Your

Fit

Child

Mild

Blamed

Wild

Do

You

Know

Who

They

Did

To

Who

Forgone conclusion

No illusion

Law abiding

This riding

The tiding

Whose finding

For posterity

No majority

Abiding

Moon’s truth

Who is Ruth

Your vote

Streuth

Delusionary bloat

Fuelled by an oat

Of time

Done fine

I am your boat

Who in it will float

To know

What did show

Was that if you can’t believe me though

Now round

And found

Past made

This day

One Planetary Love

Like a glove

Don’t shove

It is two

With a thud

Crumbs

Crud

Mud

Bud

Dear

Year

Bring

Good cheer

This day

You play

Mud man

Van way

For they

Do their way

Ice age stage

Made today

Moon’s tide

This wide

Swoon buffoon

Long already no man’s pride

Mud

Crud

Man

Thud

I found a Prophesy

What did it say

What’s it to you

But that here to stay

Maintain the rage

Dear Australia

Rage against

The identity that ain’t

In rage to swallow

A new tomorrow

Hell’s lesson no beer

For race relations in good cheer

Is a passage made

In reality’s fear

This day strange

To the tides of rage

This world’s claim

We make our own page

For our own home in Jannah

Is this the stage

Before now is time

For that blunder too fine

Long grassers disguises

Rise up in rhyme

Not by your five cents

Nor buying two cents

But mine

The five sixth sense

Long grass

Swagman

True and false sense

Not black or white that fence

In this fight

We will be

Tonight

Alright

We all fell to love and only love

Whose way

Might

Bud

Bud

That is the essay as it was in the form it had been connected to many more poems and a couple of other essays in preparation for publishing as a book. These three poems above were always its accompaniment. However since that time, back in early January 2007, it now being 8^th May 2007, a few events have occurred which have changed the social conditions somewhat.

The most obvious thing is that I have had an black skinned Aboriginal mother, born into a family without any intermarriage with the invaders in her background, and her five year old son, staying at my house. They were travelling with a white step father of English ancestry, and had landed among the Brisbane homeless where an old man, whom is my friend, a John Nawakie, guided them into the idea of staying at my house, where there are bedrooms available for my children. I will tell a bit about their stay with me and the history of it, before placing at the tail of this publication a set of poetry, portions of which my fears which have been stimulated by their stay, have inspired within the context of an exorcists task.

They have stayed with me for about two weeks. Eventually I could stand the white man no longer, but not because he is a bad man. I noticed a few very odd things.

He was in the same patterns of being emotionally abusive towards his black female partner, as I have experienced from a black man who was my sexual partner for a time. But in both contexts the nature of any problems in the intimate relationship was being explained by the black community as belonging to the general problems of racism.

So there is an obvious query which rose in my mind about why these two men were behaving within the same pattern of abuse towards family. I have observed my male friend in a similar pattern towards his mother. But often the way he had treated me was being put down to a matter of what happens between white and black people. Also it seems that too often the mother who was staying with me is assuming that her partner being abusively ignorant of her needs, is about his white skin. But what I am reporting is that he is certainly not acting within any white person’s cultural pattern.

So the question arises about what the white step father and my friend have in common. The clearly obvious fact at the outset is that both have been raped in the prison system, but what eventually became apparent, is that both have been raped in prison, within a set of conditions in which they were being “prepared” for being given the “favour” of a job in the prison kitchen.

This fits with the nature of the emotional abuse which both are trapped into enforcing upon a woman. It relates to cooking.

What I reported to the relevant authorities is that the son is not at all a sad child and had no acting out of any fears which are not age appropriate for a five year old. He is slightly under exposed to the standard of experiences of ‘object manipulation’ which will be necessary for him to undertake when in a pre-school or primary school environment. Lacking experience with what is called ‘object manipulation’ is very normal for all Aboriginal children, since Aboriginal culture never teaches to identify with inanimate objects, except for natural land forms, but rather teaches to identify with signs of life. I observed this amply with his not having yet skills with drawing on paper, or following pictures on paper as a set of instructions for putting lego pieces together. However the mother made use of the children’s literature at my house for reading to him. I also noticed that even though he is still in a nappy, that he is able to get into the bath and clean up his mess himself if he poos his nappy and the mother is not immediately in attendance. There was also an instance in which the step father instructed the child to go to the toilet, but when the child did not immediately go and do a poo in the toilet, the step-father lost his temper, and screamed at the child. The step-father even then said to the mother that they might as well just take the child straight to the department of families and give him up since he was never going to get out of nappies. The step father was very angry and the situation warranted no anger what so ever. That was the point at which I became unable to tolerate them staying on in my own home, although I am regretful in the context of the mother and son’s need, I can not afford myself to further tolerate the step father. He makes all use of the kitchen extremely disruptive. As though every act of cooking, even boiling a kettle, is cautioning us all to potential threats. The whole situation is emotionally draining at a time when I can ill afford that because I have my own family court case in hearing again very soon.

In the circumstances both mother and son have been living off junk food, and the son is eating much too much chocolate. Given his level of consumption of chocolate and the step father’s extreme anger about the toilet, I will here make a statement of support for the mother having been keeping the son in nappies, even though he is five and should have begun school by now. This is necessary, especially in that I have asked for the relevant authorities to help this young family, but mainly because they are already well within the world of being supervised by those authorities whom are sanctioned by Government to remove children whose safety is at risk in their parents care. These three people have been on the run from State to state from such authorities, but without any real need beyond there existing eating disorders, having been caused by psychological and emotional abuse.

There was not indications of any violence from the step father towards the mother or the child, but there was ample indication that the mother is very often causing that her behaviour is not what she wants it to be, but is rather what will cause that the step father need not loose his temper. On the evening he lost his temper he had set it up, because he was threatening to unless the mother and son accompany him into the City over night to await a 2.30 am payment being received into their accounts, but then in their preparations to go with him, he also lost his temper. While they were away I moved their things out of my house, because the period they had paid me rent for was finished, and I did not want to have to face the step-father trying to give me more money for staying longer, because I knew he would be very hard to say no to. I am myself susceptible to the pattern of using food to abuse, and so needed not to be confronted. He seems to be holding it over the mother, as though he has one up on her, that while at my house, I cooked more often than she, and I am a white woman with three children already all removed from me, so I must be a worse mother. While the mother visiting me is a black mother with only one child removed from her, who lives with her brother at an Aboriginal mission in the far north tropics, and with one child still in her custody, so she should clearly be enabled to lead me in any kitchen. The fact of the matter is that she and I, both being of the same classification in Aboriginal Kinship, had agreed that as I am her senior by eight years, my function as older sister, should cook and in general monitor levels of providence to her and her son. Every support service this young family will be needing has been informed of all my observations.

After I spoke with the social worker about my observations, I have become more observant of the general degree to which these same patterns are current in the whole population of persons effected by their male folk having been raped in the prisons. I believe that if the problem can be isolated only to those whom have worked in prison kitchens, that there may be a way to conceive of its solution far more readily. But I am quite afraid of even expressing what I can perceive to any person whom is themselves effected by the pattern, because every time I express that I can perceive a pattern exists, and so a solution, the pattern plays into becoming threatening towards me.

Significantly the Aboriginal mother who stayed with me, is looking forward to her own mother being released from a life sentence in prison later this year. She told me that a few years ago, before her second son became born, she went into prison, having become a criminal, only so as to see and spend time with her mother. She grew up with no mother in her daily life as a teenager, but shows every sign of being very forgiving of her son, and his manners and attitude are near to perfect at all times except when exhausted. They only lack access to the resources of the knowledge about modern mainstream cultural standards, and as Aborigines have been systematically prevented from adhering to their own culture of origin for as many generations as the invaders have been in this land. This land here being Queensland, the State of Australia which had an Act of Parliament upon which South Africa’s apartheid legislation was based after long research to find the most suitably racist. This land in which an Aborigine was not regarded as a citizen until a referendum in 1967, and with the 40^th anniversary of that history mark only now weeks away, this story must be dedicated to every Aboriginal mother. Because we are who can disprove that any fact of any hatred towards children ever had any social function.

There follows here a few more poems, which are grouped into a set made which I have given the file name “Envy Set”. But they are a set of poems, many of which manifested as a consequence of the visit to my house of a black Aboriginal mother, her youngest son, and a white man.

Some Poems About Sort of Stuffing Around

Food

The food style wiz

Gaol kitchen’s did

By the racial hatred bid

Christmas retrievable

From Chris Cringle

The sellers market swindle

In this spindle

Of straw spun into

Golden thread

Fruit mince pie

Five of a kind

Two buried

Two eaten instead

For next time in plenty

Well been read

Twice enough rice

Is best left that fight

Won for this land alright

The first sorry heard by

Was not for to party and fly

But for prayer tonight

Since to cut the cheese

Had there please

Been the story of

Who sees right

What cattle might

That milk better be no fright

The cards read

Ten ace ace

Diamond spade heart

Clubs four of

Only the joker missing

But bread and farts

The King of spades

Seven diamonds say

Six clubs today

Up top

Upon the fridge

That had hid

Her hair told yet

Brushed distractible

Antennae’s fishing

But no lies are retractable

Who could the children be ringing

Lettuce rotting

Too much plastic forgotten

Meat pies too long

Gone what on

Old and cold

But the vegetable

Perhaps salvageable

To whom knew

With what heart to

Marry that no can

Could rent the farrow

Neither love go sallow

No more fan

Plant yarrow

The beef gone wild

Had no right

My kangaroo and peach

Pomegranite koresh

Eaten well might

Clean out cook’s bite

Pumpkin scones won a run

Because it ain’t no compliment

To be found clean

By a sodomist

Silver tailed spleens

The sacrifice

Remember your own life

Owns the right

For death alone to account

What Allah likes

Cricket players dive

To catch a mouse

Will who write

When we are what we eat

Is our house our mind

But turning into couch potatoes

Who was it that ate you

And could they chew

Wrote not the cow who knew

Better than to

What the bacteria in its poo

Could do

Was only find

That the kind

Of pattern of mind

Being forced up the but

Of the cook’s of doves

Is that kills when it knows enough

But yet food will

A war for famine

To win is still less barren

Than death’s will

Your own hill

Over mine is born my own self styled fill

Can Child Done Cool

The race to have did done

What some supposed might be fun

Was a race they hosed

With what no adult could suppose

Has had many children’s minds

Forced into the patterns of lust

Such

Yet the mind of the child

Ever so mild

If schooled in truth

Will never abide

So what is done

Must

Bread and Farts

The wider concept

That to carry

Forebodes no precept

But of their marriage

Who was it forgot it

Shall be that

Recollection

Of what we ever knew

At

The elation

Of only what is true

A match too large

But yet did do

That the pain to bear at

How had you knew

She is not to walk so fast as

What his want needed her to

But faultless his

Part upon this

Since of bread and farts

His bottom dollar fits

As Black as Them

‘They’ imagine

That “taking”

Is getting

Stress

From being

Associated

With whiteness

Such that

There is

No consolidation

Of their meaning

In being

Blackest

Yet appearance is

But never the whether

Of the mind’s feather

So never mind

Those who

Base their status

On being as black as

What is blacker than

Life existing

From a Bee for the Birds

If birds focus upon the walk

They forget their thoughts

And abuse their own mind

With ideas unkind

About what they might

Be in truth attuned with right

Despite

The ever present doubt of flight

For conscience too their life

So believe their plight

Is to know for certain

So soon that they seem

To have been

Whom did cause what we all might do

But not to

And including you and me

And every bee

Since we be able both ways

But they the only safety sure

Is the feathered score

Since otherwise the Ants stake

Is all that they take

Those whose ultimate fall

Is eternally to the bird call

And Ant bodies all

Will bee’s honey thus be for

Only so far this call

Lies on Fire

It won’t work

To tell a lie

Though I have done to try

But never done that could I

For it’s just not my style

But for the dry

Time in my hair fine

This will I

ENVY STREAM

I think that my sister

Stole my chances of finding

Any husband who I could ever be

Reminding

In life

Do not steal of your wife

Her love of children

Nor her vanity nice

But wait until she gives of

That way be right

So will my sister be paying for me

Through her grave done deal

With death too real

Is a military feel

And its key

Who is she

But a nobody

If her time and place

Never take face

Stolen Tears

This month

Is approaching

The date of

Four years exact since

The police, family, school, and ex-defacto

All believed lies about me

Spun by who knew them to be

Only lies for making money

Based in no real evidence

This is not funny

Since they removed from me

My children three

Not yet back in my custody

Through false accusations

There had been imagined

No way out for me

From the station

Of lies about me

But I am supposed to inevitably

Be becoming their lie about me

No matter how depraved they made be

As though possible for me

Yet all the while

So imagining

They supposed to better had save my children

From only that they did to me

So I sit here still today fuming

Seething and hating

The whole world of all that is

Which conspired to take advantage in this

In anger too deep to express

Already having plotted that passage

Of how those who benefit today

Put me into this mess of their play

And as the minutes tick by

I find

Having entered into the moments of years

Arriving in a count now of five

Can there be

No further possibility

For redemption of any

Of who simply refuted me

When in clear sight of better evidence

Bar my children who’ve been under duress

Since the advantage of many against me

Had pleasure upon what is never

As that their own debts were owed by me

So unless

The real evidence

Is examined accepted and justice served through

Will it be those who

Denied my tune

Whose fall will not find redemption

Their better selves among who

Are paying already

That this written to you

Yet nothing exists

Which compensation could satisfy

The burning inside

For five years of my children’s time

Stolen in crime

Against the humanity of every

Human being that it takes a rhyme

To remind

You must fear this

An outcome not to be ever again

Forever is never if and when

Upon which the humanity

Of every

Man woman and child

Depends

Has my heart hardened

To be certain

I will hate to death alright

Every person

Who ever harmed

The idea of any child

In innocence

And never might I accept

Any accusation of forcing

Upon the world

The course of

The debts to repay will be

For mine is to hold you to through me

That time

One rhyme

Clothing Shame

That covering in shame

White skin needing clothing

Is covering no game

For accustomed we are

To the vanity of ugly

Situations and station

Airs and graces

Outfits and faces

Slammed out like to beauty

Such that to uncover

The reality

Of God’s glory

In life sustaining

Health becoming

Well loved face

Is too far tempting

Of wrong doing

That in shame have we learned

To cover up truth and innocence

As though that criminal

But then what would be this

If you’d been let on in at

Such that black

Skin’s protection

The only real win

Forever no sin

Its observance

The shamelessness of well loved time

Did it say we will all be what, who me?

Know in me

Being Muslim means only

Obedience to willingly

Obeying the will of

Allah almighty

His teaching

All around us

If only

We choose to find it

Are prophesy’s being revealed

Have modern Churches of Jesus

Foundations in Qur’an

In Hijab

And Europe’s own Jihad

So believe this in me

I will never expect you be

Able to believe me

Until you find

Your own evidence known

Of Islamic certainty

Eternity be

Wiccan the first

Church of Jesus

Synagogue of Satan caught by

Through Islam in disguise

Is no special deal

For every who knows of

The details so caught because

Only real believers

Will see

Or care to believe

That therein is the

Total economy

Caught in one key

Whose but those fallen

Only in me

Since I am my self in entirety

Submitted

Surrendered

Forever all mind is

In Allah through this

What would open it

Of hope of war

Has hope of faith

No more

But for famine poor

The faith of hope’s new score

Twice now for pestilence

There is a door

In death’s own true floor

Childhood Exposed Raw Never Chose

I once

Knew greed

No work

Did need

Alone uncovered

The bone exposed

Was my fear

That I showed

This less known

Childhood state

Never that my own

Causation to have known

How I came to be caught

In its interminable state

Would for ever have been safe

If only never our fears of its gate

Cook Shit

Cook’s bait

Nice light

Their hate

Don’t take

Since the blacker

You are

To their accusing

Your whiteness

The fatter

They get

Upon your blindness

To their harder

Accusing

Of your looking

At what it is

You could be taking

Most especially

If helpfully

So just

Don’t

Take

Cook’s hate

But the whiter

You take never

Accusing forever

Then the better

The trap

You set

For the famine

Of racial discrimination

The oven’s no more

The place for

Nor

Whatever

Your next

Association

With what they hate you for

Since the cook

Never the mother took

How far the fall who for

It is right

In the white fight

To let your self fall

As far as the floor

Of what you and your lover

Might have to discover

About each other

In this land of each other’s

Enemy’s and death wishes

For have all of us sisters

Cousins and brothers

Realised what it is

We are hating in

Each other’s embraces

Or is it our real disgrace

That we slept with our enemy

So far to accept likely

The enemy’s fate

In this war of who will take

What sort of state

Is it true we have to

Release our sustenance

Just to learn of each other

What real love is

And how is it we

Know so to retain

Perfect self restraint

In any and every

Moment of doubt

In each other about

Knowing this war of invasion

The country Australia

Has born these few hundred years counting

For the wars of all ages

Now so caught between

Our enemy and ourselves seen in his envy

Are we

Justly ready

To end with

This world that is

Able by the few whose toil’s for

Keeps apart who is who

The soil for

For what is right

Is that your might be of your own life

Belonging to the site

Your biology receives of

So done are the Dreams of

Turning the Games inside

Of the entrapment

By females

Of males

Into seeming to be

The problem

By women’s playing at being the victim

Is that all decent men I know

Have been too scared to show

Their real urge to protect

My vulnerable show

I first had been entrapped

That no other self I know

But use it by purpose now to entrap also

Those other sorts of men

The sexual predators

Don’t you know

There must be a safe course of flow

For sexual relations to go

But nobody ever taught me so

Yet just let it be so

Only when there are no

Accusations that force

Innocence to hoe

Fertile soil in rows

For un-needed deprivations

So how to begin

Be unafraid to win

By letting love in

To hold account of our sin

Is to never confuse

Accusatory steps rude

Of unfounded acceptance

Rather just point to

Observations of weakness

Highlight-able in the stress

What has no place

In happy family fates

And wait

For who loves you

Will accept of you

The un-stitching of

Their entrappment bare

Until alike to

The Siamese twins stare

That this is

Child’s knowledge

Will tell

How safe is

Society that this

Forever that which

Will let its entrappment

Unstitch

With love’s real hitch

When Entrappment No Victim Bent

When Tar

Of Thanksgiving

Becomes the

Difficulty in

The sit-

Uation this is

Why entrappment is

That any threat be

What is best made

Pre-emptively since

If you ignore

Then they might

If real dirt against

Yet if you oppose

Then worse

Is their opposing glow

Of assuming guilt

Disguises itself

So show

Yet the fear you know

If you show also

Is the threat comparable

Don’t just think so

But be certain

This is so

That avoiding

What had been threatened

As though in guilt real

Might certainly be taken to feel

The hate of the score

Of a threat sore

Your timing who threatened

With the wrong of for

Having frightened you so

Needs its real consequence to sow

Is that if ever

I never pre-empted

The crime I am accused with

And a few are I never could

In case caught into causing

Then must I threaten

Who frightened me with threats

That might or might not be real

Or I might change the tune with my steel

For I will trip them up into

The fall in the crime of

Having threatened me

Or maybe not so

And which ever way they go

Why how frightened I am

Of that also

Needs the certainty that

Every victim can buy that

By habit

And learn it to swallow

The truth not hollow

Of what had been entrapment at

And will we thus learn to please

Interrupt just at

Feed the hate of ourselves false that

And collapse to fear certain

No curtain

In the consequence learned and

Of death done by one

Fully remembering

This sum experience

Is not what I wanted

And since am forced into

Without escape possible

Why I find my will is

To its wrong take

So imposing my self certain

Knowing death in this learning

Upon who had so trapped me in

To feeling bad only for taking in harder

This will to even so

Begin

Terrible

In think I fell in love with a fellow

I am not meant to

Or is it that I am

And Terrible

How did anybody ever

I did always hate

The very idea of a date

Because of its assuming

Real sexual relations

Un-arranged by broader social function

Yet this state

In which I write poems

Is that in fate

Of not the kind

Of social relations

Around and surrounding

Conducive to any sort of

Assumption that happy marriages

Might get arranged

In these conditions so strange

So in general

Stress continues

And my anger seething

Usually suppressed feeling

Or used for baiting

Those who would fault me

Into further vulnerability

Still hoping

Somehow its condition

Will discontinue

Did a peculiar thing

Happen to me

While sitting barefoot

In public

Late one night

Approached by a stranger

Deciding to take him

As a harmless unit of population

With a nice face

And safe feel

Seemingly too drunk

For friendship to begin real

He was not following through with

The instructions from his

Mates on the telephone

To get back to their place

So I lead him

Back to them

As a favour

From a stranger

Said goodbye

And but

When is whey

Is why that

I keep feeling

As if we had sex

So fuming and seething

More and more daily teething

A new bite function

Needing his welcome

Might I complain to him

You see my vulnerability

Well it really was needing

A Husband

Not a strange drunk

Because at its heart is

The fact in bread and farts this

That I can’t sell myself as junk

Can’t undersell

My ware that is to tell

The real lawful way through

Many and most of

All sorts of social functions

When in dysfunction

My mind has combated

All wrongs through

That I know how

Any child could every good deed do

And wrongs any I can undo

Yet the wrapper

I come in

Has no social function

Though its skill is

An exorcist if a wife

Matchmaker and

Midwife

Yet how so promoting

Can I

Of my real self worth

Who would vote in

Since its fate has been

That in learning

Has any exorcist

The terror of eternity to face

And a grate over

The drains of plenty

That waste did send me

And my reputation

Though quite equitable

To my station

Bears nothing at all of

My real skill this ball has

So fuming daily is looming

Some strange new relation

With a stranger whose name I

Forgot to ask him

But why

When our minds already

Fully locked in tight

Yet our timing

While only yet together

No longer

Than a two hour

Walk with each other

Like making love

That this I write

Such my temper

That my mind today threatened

About his five month ex-girlfriend

Perhaps I could fall to

Do her myself if

My anger gets worse

Just out of spite

Then I lay down to rest

To find my mind dreamed right

Into their nest

All the while assuming

My own future to be its truth

But for the love in his wish

Would I not have detected this

So by motion imposed

Alone I had known

To forewarn him and cease from

Supposing

I might be his new girlfriend

For of real love this has a true roof

Never I to risk his youth

My own body never before felt so strong

So easily pushed into getting sore

Nor so light of hoof

Yet this seven-eight-teenth day since

We met

Could I not help but the truth get

Somehow his ex

Had her money

Counting against me

And he sussed it

But yet

He did not perhaps well suss me

My determination will pay

Since taking this the hard way

Have I pulled myself up and out of

His ex

Girlfriends misery

Is no pleasure for me

And of my own measure

Only a minor spender she

But this will never be

Unless in truth he

Decides to conspire with me

Since I only so drifted

Into his past so shifted

Through looking into a future

Of him with me

But figured out the past scene

By only supposing

I might just tell him

Not to go confusing

His ex-girlfriend

Or any new future one

With me

So believe you also of me

If he now fails to find me

Since my efforts for him

In the time since we met

Have proven already

Me who made too high a payment

The night we met

He might so then live to regret

Having stirred me

Before seething quite peacefully

But that I wrote this

Is to set

The certainty I can only get

Is that the positive consequence

Already outweighing any negative

Therefore that man will be mine yet

If only my self will he own as me mine to be

Face known

In of these poems

About him some be

All written after first we met

My self now fully pulled up

Short in relating to his life

Story with an ex-girlfriend not mine to tell of

I think he’ll have more wives

Than just me

Mine this is to tell

Because did he

Yet realised my timing

In relation to his

Does this

Since I myself

Can’t get out of it

And can’t find why this is

Yet find a new wrapper

Comes with it

Even if not yet He

So perhaps I find

In these times

Since our astrology not well aligned

By some mishap of ancestors time

For he aligns with a migaloo sister of mine

It might be me

Who decides

To establish

Some self decent

Dating etiquette

For how else will I

Win this

And the name game

I can readily rubbish is

Since names change

But never the time and place

But the ball I never caught in the first place

Had names written all over the place

And seems now to have just rolled back

To my feet

He might begin with an “eS”

To my “aR”

For who is it

Important when

In mind not body

But then

If in bodily walk

Since times place ever talks

He will have to met me to be

Be questioning

Whose social relations are these

Let

Let me tell you

That I know how

To get on with

A black man

But of white like me

Well how do we

At least black men

Could acknowledge me

As not being only

Too silly

But clever at hiding

Real meaning

While white folk

Pretend and accept

Of each other not to get

But when once met

Another decent

Just can not in believe it

Eternity is Accountability

Elohim Allah

Will I be able to name him all

He who is first and forever

Even when I knew never

Elohim Allah is why I am that I weather

His Holy unending Grace

In each matter of my own will I face

His indivisible mercy

So not one might I disgrace

In no cry of mine

Could I first have named He

Elohim Allah will I be

For His unknowable worth

We ride our own hurst

In His strong standing Grace

That we have no face

Elohim Allah every Jinn be in His seen

Unending Forever Indivisible Together

If every word I know for

I could string out this poem for

What would I amount to at all

But that I am too poor

In every other of life’s calls

I am responsible for

Every name when breathed who calls

Except His Absolute one and all

Of God being His Forgiving me

By his forgiveness thus

Speak Elohim Allah with me

That every word could be his name in Eternity

Except that I know my own responsibility

So by only my own breath will I be

The Fairly Traded Poems Zone

The Redressing of Fair Trade
The re-dressing of knowing
No good consequence flowing
In being the market
For capitalist accumulation
Of purchasing of any commodity
For who made the sale
Was done no favour
By being lead astray
So as to believe
In profit making
Of their own buying
If not directly then in shading
That fair trading’s shade
What of baiting
Black people
Into drug using
As white would
While who set the bait
Had a cup full of
Strange juice of
Stolen Grace of
Very too many medicines the diet

Thus now so very quiet
Knowledge of Shamanic might
Know how for imposed
So stolen off unwanted cows
Swallowed in no dogs hollow fowl
Had you never knowing
The truth in
But only that which withstood
Wrongful blaming

Is who lives

Who takes interminable shaming

A Spell breaking Spell to a Nana Will:

Can you see what I see

We could never have been the doer

Of Ever we were aligned to one day wake up

Of deeds we are done

Of women’s eyes seeing self the world

A frame filtering our Soul’s terror of

What are we done’d before knowing into

Yet Man of God you that I

Your eye can see

Only world of reality

In dot part through the filter we are of Soul be self

That I need you

My world to see

Of Forgiven Karma, I bee

I yam

Am three

That somebody had to try to stop thee

Everlasting life becomes Human by each our capability

Already Freckled

Skin shade tight

Though itself non too brown

That no fairer is

Until it scratched an itch

If you please

Finding underneath

To be whiter than cheese

While a companion

Browner patch of skin

Already manifesting

The freckle is

And white the mind

Of whose animal

Knows to so manifest

Is the only innocence

Here is a story I am reticent to tell

Since concerns as to potential characterizations are fell

Here is a whistle

It has a bait that has awoken

To the fact of what is spoken

Meaning that as bait it was not safe

And managed somehow

To pick off the fisherman’s brow

The consternation about the situation

And prove it knew it self well could

What they had in mind that it should

And then also escape from

Three sisters in sarongs

Or was that before now then tell

Since if one refuses to instruct

She is likely to blather

About this and that and the other

Why until she has won

By accounting you at

Having known what her drivel was about

But don’t shout

Since she’ll turn that about

But then how

Since surely she is but a cow

Could she have taken those drops of consternation

And turned them into tastier bait than she

But if we are fishing

Who the hell are the fishes

Is the question to tell

Since she likes to answer it swell

And has had an inside the gob

Look about for her two bob

And fancies herself three quid’s worth of squid

For baiting the no-siders with

The sort of bait you take dearly

And rescue her our of the jaw of life

Since she’ll turn it around

And run you into the ground

By baiting you with flies

If she’s food for fish ties

Never explaining yet

Exactly how while a child

She landed an account against

Is it that she cognized

How to use herself as bait

To catch out right lies

So play a tune on her whistle of tin

She’s a Western Australian Landed sound

V is for victory

But begin

You may need to supply her

With peace in a pipe

Of bits and but

What happened

Was an early maximum security bite

Temporarily refuting her peace pipe

Bite being

A familial arrangement

And a threatening stranger

And twice told no ranger

But the quid for squid

Turned out only relevant

In that her sons selected replacement fishermen

Became so afraid

That He mistook Himself for the fish

So sold her out to

What a derangement

And security was maximally certainly

That unless the fisher-squid

Writes “hi: I never know what I did”

And she that to forget about

Or so she said

She’ll have to take

Him for the

Fishiest of fish

Yet for heavens sake

The fishermen did take

His consternation at squid fishing wrong

And sold out his bait to the throng

That somehow it has become

What is it they wanted, Her a One?

These imbecilic Australians

Was it not inevitable

The wrong would meet strong

And victory lost to the male

But if she’s nice and pliable

Any man’s muscle

Will melt her resilience to that trade

Still not explaining

Exactly how

The head at the top of the world

Bit into her shit

That she’s quite dearly and clearly

It

But what is this about!

Actually Copas is my mother’s mother’s mother’s maiden name, after her paternal Grandfather, a Henry Cops, whom was convicted in London with: either stealing a clock so the story is told; or forgery, as his pardon in the New South Wales State Archives reads; Whereupon he was employed as a bricklayer, and built a building at a place named Merton on the Denman in NSW, the only private village every built here in Australia.  One of his Grand daughters, my Great Aunty Lucy, emmigrated to South Africa with her young child, only to find upon reception a telegram telling her that her Husband had died so would not be on the next boat as arranged, but she met a man from England, whom had been diamond prospecting, and took the right fork in the valley, when his friend, Mr DeBeers, took the left, and the two of them lived happily ever after until over one hundred years old.  All in all it seems to be a name worthy of my having added it to that on my birth certificate by deed poll.  Whereas a Nungarrayi is more or less just a Rebecca, as it says exactly on my birth certificate, but in Warlbiri language.  Doubt that didi is Gaelic but, since it also means a Nun.  However, this post is only me pretending to have any thing relevant to add as a means of experimenting with the Word Press admirable software. What happens if I put this here I wonder?