Post-modern sacred visions. An Australian Dreaming

Because I fell this post is important the latest entry to the journals has been moved here so this one can be maintained.

It has been stated I am a mystic and I have found places on the land and in the water where I was given visions. Those visions inspired paintings and drawings. I call them “dreaming places”. The name is unimportant. You can call them whatever you want although if you can find them, like me, you will not ever tell anyone where they are.

I have told the story before. It was a vision given during a walk by a creek where long ago another mystic had contemplated a fish floating in a sunbeam in crystal clear water. The style is inspired by rock painting as well as the content of the vision itself

 With the new post-modernist urge to blame white men for everything and cut everybody off from cultural boxes not judged to be their own I feel very threatened. Some of my work in the future was planned with Chinese script and loose reference to Chinese mythology. I studied some of this and practiced the martial arts and practiced the mythological concepts as well. Somewhere up ahead will be a fight to get the work hung. I am too ill to explain my history to every fanatic who wants to strip me of my experience. I will not have my creative power stolen nor will I be boxed into some prejudicial world of political tropes and paradigms. I have works with cave painting themes and one with my own translation of x-ray painting.

Most of my work is about mystical things and complex understandings of images and symbols. I am Australian and my experience. MY CULTURE includes the indigenous images which cascade over my mind all the time. My inspiration is from this land and I extend my studies of Western beliefs to the Chinese, the African (and more) and then to the local dreaming places I have found.

 None of these things were stolen from their owners. I do not recognize owners for local sites I have discovered. They are living things existing beyond our ownership and certainly unknown to recent Indigenous populations. It is possible and likely they were never known by more than one or two vision seers including myself. Not across all time.

Blue Turtle. Inspired by a vision from a fresh water creek by the coast where I felt there was once a sacred place of turtles

I do not apologize. Once some of the symbolic sources may have been limited to the culture which made them but now I am in the new wave of world educated minds. It is the background where this is all shared culture because even before the internet we had a global community. Not globalism of the neo-cons or the parasitic globalism of the wandering investors but a globalism where modest and re-affirming nationality did not attract desperate attempts to pull down everything or become mired in outraged sulking. It needs to be said I do not claim images by other people. I am inspired by them and I borrow symbols and emotional channels to speak and create the overall vision

I have to go a little further on this vein despite this being a long post already.

When I was young learning western mysticism, then Chinese mysticism, European and North American I wondered about the geological and cultural contexts of what I was reading or learning. Some people say we created God in our own image. I didn’t see that. What I saw is how we wrought our understanding of our interaction and contract with our Gods to appear as we would have it. What ever we found when those people sensitive to sacred things found them, we imposed our need and will on afterwards. They became bloated and corrupted and hidden within volumes of priestly politics created so the people not able to reach sacred planes could still use reference to them for their personal and institutional authority

I realized I was in not in Jerusalem, Ireland or Manitoba or Shanghai. I was here in Australia and the practice or observance of things from those lands, while not wasted, did not recognize any local sacred influence or respond to this land’s individual patterns of power. Lore might be a better term.

I had been sensitive to some visions when my mind was open and I was in those places. I am not well trained so it was not much.

They were here once. The people who understood the sacred in the land were rare but they had left their shades here and there. The land itself also had sacred things beyond human. These things existed without reference to us. In many places Christians and Moslems have destroyed those sacred things simply because they could never stand the competition of real sacred places tested against a priesthood that had nothing but the desire to continue its clutch on entire civilizations.

What they did, and still do, was the equivalent of finding angels and murdering them so you don’t lose the pretence of the Church holding the authority of God. It is like finding the last colony of lions on Earth and killing them so the spot in David Attenborough’s documentary, where he declares them irredeemable and extinct, is not proven wrong and thus an embarrassment. It is that cruel and as much of a catastrophe to the planet.

I asked living Indigenous people and apart from a few friends who had been stripped of any sacred depth by their time in lost generations I was treated with ridicule and racism. It appeared the people who survived had forgotten, if they ever knew. In their urge to wrap themselves in the cloak of their genetic geological presence they had fooled themselves into thinking the spiritual land was only open to them. This was a surprise to me on several levels but most succinctly when they expressed not even a hint of any actual sacred vision. They would deem it their racial preserve despite actually being unable to connect in any way or even believing it was real! They have been too totally brutalized by their mission orphanages and this consumer culture. Have I repeated myself? It is not a rant is it?

This is titled on several planes of understanding. “Sense of Community” or “Divinity rising through the Qlippoth.”

 I have to cover this ground. Whatever you may think of me, or life, this complex ideology was becoming real to me before I hit puberty

We are learning more about what this land was really like and how they really lived. I am almost sickened to find how much our understanding of the people here was dumbed down. When I was finally removed from scripture at high school and a non Christian class was established I had been loudly lamenting the corrosion of the sacred holdings of the Indigenous people and their cultural genocide in the orphanages and missions. I would not hear that the church represents the God of love.

What I will not do now is blind myself to the visions and sacred things I found at my own effort and which throng to speak through me, broken and crazed vehicle that I am!

The post-modernist leaning to indulge the fantasies of the outraged and make these delusions of cultural boxes into claims of “appropriation” cripples many political careers and corrupts the pathways for many artists. I will not give up the visions and sacred threads I have studied hard to connect.

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The Battle of Two Schools

Written by Steve Solomons to celebrate the reunion of the first sudents of Baulkham Hills High School.

The first moments of the first day of the first year at Baulkham Hills High School saw smiling and excited children milling about in the shade beneath giant gum trees outside barn-like portable classrooms at one end of the Castle Hill High School grounds. We were boarders in a school that had existed without us since 1963

A warm breeze ruffled the canopy of leaves and made crazy swirling shade patterns on everyone. The children are dressed for the first time in their olive green sweaters and skirts. The boys are wearing a confusing range of grey pants from high-waisted Stagger’s flairs to industrial quality grey work shorts. Their shoes ranged from Blundstone boots to Slazenger running shoes painted black. The girls had begun a competition for the most daring mini skirt. Hair on both boys and girls ranged from short-back-and-sides to long and hanging down the middle of the back. The boys wore belts in a variety of leather colours and widths.

Everybody was saddled with the awful suitcases demanded by the administration. They were devices of torture that would crush many a student and could contribute to a life time of back problems.

The headmaster and his cabal of teachers and masters looked out with barely repressed disgust. This display of individuality in the clothing was not what the school had in mind when it issued a dress code. It was expected that the students would be one rank of sameness.

The memos began to fly. Because none of those early memos really received the attention and consideration they were due when they were written there was confusion. A push back began among the students. The girl’s dresses inched down one resentful measurement at a time. The girls mistress was an acerbic hard drinking wizened little woman. She thought her role in life was to be the knot that protected the innocent girls from the groping and smelly boys. She was not there to produce excellence of education and women for a futuristic workforce. She had not been so well educated in her own childhood.

The school demanded uniformity of hair and the students blew them off over that. This was a rock and roll culture. The last of the hippys were Australian teenagers. Long after the flower children had forgotten their battle to change corporate America there were Australian teenagers adopting the uniform and habits. Eventually there would be a strike held by the girls on everybody’s behalf The headmaster would develop a rage he never let go of. He would be as deeply embarrassed as any headmaster could be. He had discounted these children as having any power or being important and they would have him floundering on the evening news. But that was later.

For the small boys there was a continual hazing. The school administration watched approvingly as the jumped-up little school kids had their heads shoved down toilets and their new green ties snipped off. They were bruised and battered and frightened. Hazing is supposed to end. Day after day it continued even as the larger boys fought off their attackers, the small boys got special resentful attention.

There was a constant hum of discussion among students. They were being treated in a way that reinforced again and again they had no place here. Part time, fill-in teachers were running classes that should have been starting more concentrated teaching. Things were constantly disrupted. They weren’t even allowed in to the science rooms.

These children were bright and energetic. They would not stand for being treated so casually. First they had to protect the smaller students from the constant bullying. After much discussion they decided to go directly to the source of their problems.

They tested the water with those who had older brothers and sisters in the higher level of Castle Hill High. Many of the Baulkham Hills students had expected to follow an older sibling who was already in Castle Hill High School. Many had neighbours or friends who were already there. That fact softened the reaction of the students to being bullied. How could they organise a face to face confrontation? There was to be a challenge to the Castle Hill High, year-eight boys. It was to be delivered secretly. It was just a demand to meet Baulkham Hills High School year-seven boys (first form) on the oval at the front of the school on Castle Street. Nothing else was said in the challenge. It had to happen almost immediately so the details weren’t leaked to teachers or parents.

Year nine and year ten students had agreed to start a riot on one side of the school far from the confrontation . They were to take a part in setting the scene for the chaos that was to erupt. They loved the idea. Older students were engaged in study for their Higher School Certificate and it was already too intense for them to get involved. Plans were hatched and devices stowed for the day.

One of the senior students had a siren foghorn he was hungry to try out so he was delighted. The rest of the devices consisted of water bombs. There were three main types. One was a waxed-cardboard milk carton. It had a “Tetra” folding top that could almost reseal the water in after the milk was finished. The one’s favoured were 250ml or half pint. Thrown high into the air they burst on contact with the ground and sprayed in every direction. A direct hit on a student could be painful so it wasn’t as popular as these next two.

There were brown paper sandwich bags. These had to be filled and fired immediately as the soaking paper often burst while being tossed. They sprayed water at a higher level if you could get them airborne. Some students carried buckets and filled a constant stream of brown paper bombs for other students who would move among the crowd to hide after they had unleashed a few bombs..

There was also the plastic hag. It was hard to get the correct amount of water. Too much and they burst while you handled them. Enough and they would sail magnificently into the air and land on children’s heads without harming them. They would spray in all directions and a crowd could be squirted without harm. Water pistols had been banned after several crazy battles when students had soaked everything they could find. It was easier to carry the bags and cartons without comment from teachers.

It was another warm day with a light breeze. There was a rush of year nine and year ten students across the ovals to a point distant from the school. Some older students ran into the buildings at the end of recess. They called out that there was a terrible gang fight erupting across the sports grounds far from the classrooms. The siren broke the silence and added a level of confusion that teachers would later resent deeply. Students who knew what was happening ran across the ovals calling and pointing while some girls tore at each other. Boys began wrestling and hitting one another. They were real minor battles between people who had wanted an excuse to fight. Hundreds of students herded across the grounds to a point distant from the classes and began screaming as flurries of water bombs landed among them.

Hearing the screams and seeing so many students in the distance the teachers moved en-mass. They could not know the cries of outrage and confusion were merely caused by the icy water bombs and the sudden rush of wrestling seniors. It looked as though there must be terrorism afoot in their sacred alma mater. They gathered every person of authority they could and raced to throw themselves protectively into the swirl of bodies.

Far distant, at the front of the school on the narrow football field that was raised along Castle Street year eight Castle Hill High School boys resolutely marched onto the battlefield. Many wore their blue sweaters tied around their waists or had their blue on blue neck ties around their heads or on their upper arms. From the other end of the building issued forth every boy presently enrolled in the tiny Baulkham Hills High School. Every boy came. They were proudly displaying their green jumpers and ties.

Nobody wasted any time.. There was a low growl. These boys had proud ancestries from battles in every part of the world. The blues were fighting to maintain sovereignty and put the impostors in their place. The green were fighting to become. To get respect and stop the endless feeling of not belonging. Perhaps none of them could have told you just how important it was but there was a hot feeling in their hearts and a lump in their throats.

Nobody held back although it was a fight between people who limited their actions to non-lethal means. Many bleeding noses and bruised eye sockets were created even in the first seconds. The fight didn’t last long. Bit by bit after a brave display the the smaller Castle Hill boys dropped back. They knew who the bullies were and were not ready to shed blood in their cause. Clumps of the smaller boys in green attacking the bigger bully boys in blue were the last ones on the field. They had been terrorised when they faced the bullies alone each day. . They weren’t scared any more. Those brave kids took a bad boxing and formed groups to bring the big boys down. It was a glorious sight.

One of the girls on lookout on the other side of the second floor of the school called out.

“The teachers are returning, they must know something is wrong. They are running!”

The blues ran back around the end of the building where they had entered in one huge pack. Several of them had to be helped to stay on their feet. The greens did the same at the other end. A scattered bunch of teachers ran through the middle of the building and totally missed the disappearing children. They milled about for a moment before calling for anyone they could find in the buildings to go to class.

It isn’t normal that a boy would go home with a black eye and blood on his pristine white shirt. His parents would want to know what had happened. In the case of siblings the other one would delight in telling the story. The headmaster had been embarrassed again. He didn’t know there had been a battle until the next morning. Then he couldn’t prove who it was or punish them. He was big on punishment. Once again he found out after the story had been whispered among parents. He had been intentionally left out of the loop. It was obvious he was suspected as approving of the bullying. He would never forgive us. It transpired that in order to punish us he would leave his beloved school and become the headmaster at the new Baulkham Hills High School. In the meanwhile Baulkham Hills High School had arrived!

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