The mpua's take on the dimensions of quantum
affinity and the fucked up skewed mechanics of female love gone off the rails
and awry a tale of fucked up mother love gorn monstrously hideously wrong a sad
treatise proudly and defiantly bought to you by the mullers and packers union
of australia
My mum tells a good story.
Our mum is smart
and wry a dab hand in the genteel art of droll. She is always colourful to listen to cos she has a bold adventurous imaginative and well crafted streak.
She is a carefully and thoughtful
construction and an artful teller of morality tales.
In short she tells a bloody good
tall story.
Since forever we have sat on her lap cuddled in her arms lay with her in bed and sat at her feet carried away on the strength of her fabled knitting and cobbling together of myth and dreamy legend.
Mum’s take on life the universe and everything.
She has a good ear and a terrific
rhythmic tongue. She is fluid and as funny and friendly warm as she is deft in
the telling of her stories.
Reveling in the story she is
in her element.
Still now we all cluster in the
afterglow of a lunch or dinner and listen to her unfold. She is the jealous
keeper of family lore and an arch story teller to boot.
She is our aging mum and her
stories are no longer told with quite the authority certainty or verve as when
we were little in younger olden days. Some of her charm and bossiness has worn
thin.
We are all much older and so is
she.
A few Christmases ago sitting out
on the deck a good feed underway a drink and cutlery to wave about and make her
point with she begins to tell stories from when she used to belt us.
You could hear the pin and penny
drop.
Boy oh boy did she used to belt us with whatever came to hand. Of course the wooden spoon and feather duster on the arms bum or back of legs caper and often as not she’d get very very carried away.
One time with the hot wheels
tracks. I kid you not.
She got so carried away this one
time that afterwards we welt ridden bloody kids agree to give the hot wheels
set to them kids we know from down the road.
Good on yer mum.
She could not always guarantee her behaviour.
She didn’t let loose on us every day but when she did her reach and strike was fast and cruel as blitzkrieg all dresden bombings and kamikaze zeroes coming atcha.
Furious atomic unforgiving
relentless and always on target.
She could not always be trusted.
She had eyes in the back of her head and on both of her elbows to boot.
There were five of us. Seven if you
count mum and dad. Mum and dad had us five in twelve or thirteen years and
sometimes came up empty like you do and then we very much copped it as you do.
Mostly always from mum and on her say so each and every and for all time and every time since time began.
No one argues with our mum and gets
away with it. She hates too good you know.
This shit went on for fucken years
as in a very very long time.
With the physical attacks she’d let
slip the verbal dogs of war so very much more than a dressing down her
debilitating debasing interrogations and demolition of us kids.
Gestapo mum she hasss vays ov makingk you tok.
Jackboots and all.
That’s our mum and no one who ever argues her back has ever got away with it not even our dad in the end.
I parted company with her at the end of fourth form the minute my exam results were in because she was so nasty.
I was placed on four x six month
bonds of good behaviour in the last two years of my high school education.
Very much on her say so.
A surprise late Friday arvo
interview with a detective through hazy peak hour clogged traffic to a cop fortress
recently rebuilt over the second most historic gaol yard and gallows square in
our colonial history.
Across town across the silverwater
river where I'm dropped in it deep going under way in over my head in this
hostile menace of the copshop fortress.
Where the plod are serious mean business. Mum and me and the polis in the badlands edifice of the super coppers copshop headquarters.
Railroaded and verballed hung out to dry on an early
Friday evening on a promise to a much longer night on her say so alone.
Sticks and stones do break bones.
Words can fucken kill you.
Take my word for it-it’s always
been very much dependent on her word and say so alone.
I’m the villain the crooked wouldn’t lie straight in bed black sheep and allegedly wayward smart arse daughter. A clever wastrel of a kid alleged to be a slattern of a dirty girl and all round bad apple kind of girl who stands accused of being rotten to the core.
On her say so.
A bogus charge is laid against me
age fourteen. I am coerced to confess a statement typed on carbon duplicates
and duly signed off on by all parties present that narky westie stifled early
evening in a senior copper's office on official business of the crown inside a
polis fortress.
Deep resentments distaste and a simmering hostility circles the room as I try to cop a plea that turns out is only on the table and available to me if and only if and when I give up my mates and friendships and activities.
The boys that I am friends with are
of a great and particular interest to my mother the coppers the law the courts
and the crown.
Me and mum and the detective senior
cuntstable sit straight backed in an upper level cop office inside a cop shop
fortress on a late hot Friday afternoon on the wrong side of town.
I am on the wrong side of the law
and very much on the wrong side of mum. I’m in unfamiliar territory and at a
distinct disadvantage and all because mum ‘because I said so’ said so.
She who must be obeyed.
I am questioned ridiculed and
scorned from both sides of the copper's desk as mum slaps and harasses me into
submission as the typewriter taps out the cover story for the two adults
keeping me company.
I am duly fitted up as we go over
and over my statement with me stalling to buy time.
Confessing convincingly enough to
have them hold off on their threat to summon and allow a polis surgeon
permission and carte blanche to examine me for evidence that my hymen is in
fact intact.
The boys that I am friends with are
of a great and particular interest to my mother the coppers the law courts and
the crown.
Sleight of hand
obfuscations playing down my every other word as haltingly I speak in nom
de plumes.
Whole paragraphs of fibs and half
truths full of forked tongued words come close to the thin ice of too much
bullshit.
Not once did I come even close to
giving up my friends.
Any and all names and places are
changed to protect and respect the innocence of our absolute right to privacy
but mostly to hide the true identities of me mates.
Shoring up my absolute inalienable
and inviolate right to secrecy I let them pull red herrings and fake names from
my mouth.
Telling an edited embroidered and a
well censored fraying version of the truth.
It is by now a necessity that slow painstaking fumbling teary and quietly spoken fast thinking is to be disguised as a chastised and contrite demeanour.
It is essential to my plans.
I have a very real desperate and
delicate task ahead of me that I might put about and make a very slow record of
interview.
Singing like a canary convincingly
enough to have them hold off and to stave off their threat to summon and allow
a polis surgeon permission and carte blanche to examine me for evidence that my
hymen is in fact intact.
My fate is quietly sealed in the
third floor coppers office on the wrong side of town this late Friday evening
inside the polis fortress.
I gamble on clever thinking and
apparent humility to head them off at the pass.
My statement of confession and
record of interview fall within some archaic point of a common law applied to
and tested against the alleged misbehaviors that are alleged to speak to our
character and then to the alleged not so lady like characteristics typical of
female minors of the state.
‘Uncontrollable’ is the charge I
have confessed and will plead guilty to.
A bullshit charge in anybody’s
language based on unproven and unsubstantiated accusations and allegations that
are only ever leveled at young girls and alleged juvenile delinquents.
A phony baloney beat up of a law. A
charge that once leveled and confessed to sees you remanded in custody while
awaiting magisterial hearing ruling and sentencing.
That allows for young girls and
alleged offenders and scofflaws to come a gutsa on the system and be sent
to prison.
Go to gaol do not pass go do not
collect two hundred dollars go directly to gaol.
I have run afoul of the law and am
about to come a cropper on the judicial processes.
They have threatened to summon and
allow a polis surgeon permission and carte blanche to examine me for evidence
that my hymen is in fact intact.
Law and order begin to take an
unhealthy prurient and specific interest in young girls' character and the
alleged lack thereof as we become subject to the administration of a law that
relates solely to a young girls status and her alleged offences transgressions
and non compliance.
My mission and I choose to accept
it is to hold and stave them off on their threat to summon and allow a polis
surgeon permission and carte blanche to examine me for evidence that
my hymen is in fact intact.
The boys that I am friends with are
of a great and particular interest to my mother the coppers the law the courts
and the crown.
I am threatened more than once with
a polis surgeon who is allowed permission and carte blanche to
examine me for evidence that my hymen is in fact intact.
Uncontrollable is what mum is and what I am about to be charged with.
I am booked in and processed my
finger prints taken and my charge sheet read aloud and held against me in an
old wooden dock with some adult cell time pending.
I’m in for some hard arse yards. I
deliberately lose track of time.
Swing low sweet chariots coming for
to carry me home.
Hours later there’s a dark night
cop car ride out to the gaol.
I am remanded in custody until I
appear in court early the next week answering to the charges against me.
I am bound over til I front the
children’s court located next door for expediency and convenience sake and for
my upcoming appearance before the magistrate.
Mum hugs me goodbye at the charge
counter in the dark hours of the early dawn as she leans in and softly reminds
me that this is for my own good.
I am told to give up my clothes and
personal effects in exchange for pyjamas and a crap dressing gown.
By torch and low light in custody
and under escort heavy steel locked doors are keyed open and closed behind me.
I am ushered into a long dormitory
and given a narrow bed in a sea of girls in rows of narrow beds. The warder
points out two locked cells down the front for the trouble makers.
I fall asleep to forget this night wet faced angry numb and snotty hot and sticky.
I snore and snuffle the night away
a juvenile delinquent in my mother’s dark hard heart made real in her
suspicions and mistrust of me.
Her dirty fertile low brow imaginings and a woeful opinion of me sees me banged up tight in gaol.
On her say so and to the wallopers delight I’m a lesson in the learning. On her say so alone and with full polis cooperation and collusion I am framed and fitted up and banged up dead to rights.
The story of my life and the secrets of family.
She disappeared our dad six or
seven years ago and now is trying it on with me. Mum grew to hate him the first
out of all of us and blamed him hard for her failings and inadequacies.
Slow and steady mum brews her
grudges into open contempt for his character and the very easy going darling
heart of him.
She buys a decree nisi for twenty
five dollars that changes hands in an afternoon of paperwork, as the small
formalities of divorce are filed with the courthouse, to be finalised after a
year of separation from dad.
She whisks us away from home one
night.
Stuffed and bundled into her old
station wagon we leave from sleep as she herds us into the car and we are
disappeared from dad and him from us this night.
No one dares argue with our mum. Instead we plead placate beg and cajole always leery of a slap about the chops or smack upon the kisser.
No one argues with our mum least of
all us.
We are at her mercy her mood and
her surprise shock of temper desperate in our mortification and secret shame.
She grew to hate me eventually
although she does love a good pecking order and us kids provide an ever
changing line up for her to choose and pick from.
When I am let out of remand having appeared before the court and pleaded guilty to the charges in front of the bench, and after I am sentenced to six months on a bond of good behaviour, mum takes me out for a milk shake.
She tells me gently that this has all been for the best for my own good and how she loves me and what a chance and opportunity to make a new start and do I want caramel?
I try my hardest to believe her but I can’t.
Every six months we go back and
attend a hearing at the children’s court every six months she seeks a
continuance on the bond of good behaviour and every six months the court
appointed magistrate grants the orders to her.
It’s for my own good and so it is agreed and ruled on in a court law and for the next two years I am to be bailed to mum by law.
Our family life would never be
quite the same again this has always been the way predicated well and
truly on her say so.
She bullies us all and verbals and
victimises my brother and sisters into bullying sustainable life out of me.
When she has finished beating me up
for what would be her last time, she tells me very quietly in no uncertain terms
that I am not to be here when she gets home from work tomorrow.
She wishes me luck as she says
goodnight and climbs the stairs to bed. I waited huddled low to the floor til I
hear her in her room and I know that she really is in bed. I wait some more
just to be sure.
I leave in a taxi mid morning the next day and after everyone else has left the house I leave home.
She bundled up my stuff and took
every little thing I left behind, every single scrap of me she packs up all my
stuff, the treasured toys junk and trophies my books and all the many and
various mementos that I had not time to think to pack and carry off away with
me.
She fills the car takes it all to
the tip and makes them help her, she does this to my brother and sisters.
My brother speaks of this to me the
very minute we meet up in secrecy behind her back and against her wishes and
warnings.
She has had me banished once and
for all.
I have hit the highway feet first
and running free from the bonds of court orders, safe that the records and
transcripts of my crimes are to be sealed on my recently celebrated birthday.
Happy sweet sixteen to me.
I am free of her and that’s all that matters.
My brother and I got pissed that first clandestine reunion and shed salty bitter tears and gentle maudlin cheery take the piss affection.
When we were kids we invented the
word brainsnap because that’s what her temper is to us and we are pretty much
on the money.
No other word comes close.
As we get older we come to know her as smother aka she who must be obeyed.
Her outlandish antics are absolute and she is resolutely wayward in the abdication of her responsibilities and duties towards us.
She betrays us and looks at us with
grim satisfaction as she tells us how it will hurt her more than it will hurt
us and that after all it’s for our own betterment and good.
She is more or less tame these
days. She is softer now because she is old and can have no real power or
influence our lives.
With old age she becomes mostly
harmless.
She hated me the most after dad and
after that our little brother went on the chopping block.
She set us up time and again and
then she’d rage ballistic and go to town on arms and legs all sly pinch and jab
pulling with a grab and yank of fist tangled hair.
When she beats us up she likes to
pick us off one by one.
She starts slowly eventually moving
in, pushing and needling harder by degrees, as sudden fast mouthed taunts sneer
foul sarcasms and rough justice up inside our heads.
Our little kid heads.
She could also alter and lose track
of the time and space continuum.
It’s a matter of fact and a true
story that life is sometimes full of shit.
All these good long years later
since I bundied off from her my way or the highway rules all I ever hear
publicly is how it is the men who are the bastards and the psycho-sexual
predators.
Never a whisper about the ladies
who beat and taunt their babies senseless.
These street angels and home devils
are the hidden loathsome secret face of a gender specific wave of violence.
The entrenched and systemic
patterns and cycles of an often brutal range of misbehaviours and tactics that
are peculiar and common to violent women.
The violent love that dares not
speak its name in any public discourse or media culture chatter. The many
culpabilities and betrayals that are played out all of the time across social
standing or lack thereof.
The secret lives of women still
untold down through the annals of time and into today.
No one speaks about it.
Not the law and policy makers not
the feminists or the queers or the academics or social scientists. Not the
criminologists or statisticians.
Nor do we hardly rate a mention in
the files of social workers doctors or teachers not in the news bulletins or
polis reports. Let alone in books of law or court trials and transcripts.
Never a whisper down through the
ages of the nasty vicious bashers that women are.
Suffer the little chilluns unto me.
I’ve asked around over the years about the slap happy mums and I reckon that far too many kids and people of any generation have big true soggy arse grief stories about the violence of mums and sisters cousins aunts great aunts girlfriends friends lovers wives grandmas babysitters neighbors and all the nuns nurses and teachers ad infinitum.
We need to shoulder responsibility
for the far too many first hand experiences of the violence and brainsnaps and
the sly cunning that women can and do inflict.
A gendered and engendered
violence all too common an occurrence and a hidden fact of everyday life.
What the shared anecdotes stories and conversations that come my way over the years suggest is that there are generations and I mean literally shed loads of women and men boys and girls of all age and backgrounds who believe and were raised to believe at their mothers breast and knee and by example that to spare the rod is to truly spoil the child.
Only no one wants to speak about
it.
There can be no more theories
advanced and revamped in the constant beef that women are always victims and
never perpetrators and practitioners of violence.
Not on my watch sister.
All and any bids for equity are off the table until generations of us women begin to make reparation for defaming and villainising the men and the children without ever copping on to our own desire for bloodlust violence and vice.
All this guff about the sanctity
and the unique traits of women is just that.
So what that we can make babies
fall out of our vaginas.
This biological function makes us
no better or worse no more or less special than anyone else the men and
children included.
This bitter hidden phenomena are
especially difficult to problematise on a societal level when this gender
specific practice both past and present goes unnoticed unchallenged
unchecked and unreported.
A direct consequence of this is that crime can be kept hidden from prying eyes public view and the long arm of the law.
Worse still is the all too common
subtext across all cultures that see it as the mother of all betrayals to dob
on your mum even when she’s the blight and bane of your existence.
Even when she's the bad big wolf eyeing youse off like a basket of goodies for grandmama nibbling and sucking marrow from the small fry she is entrusted to protect love nurture and cherish no matter what.
If I hear one more apologist or
collaborator suggest that it’s all down to the women acting out on their own internalised
oppression at the dictates and stand over tactics of the bastard overlords of
patriarchy I will scream bloody blue murder.
Because the men and kids are never proffered this sort of get out of gaol free card.
They say that home is the one place
where we have to take you in no matter what. Not in our family and not in the
families of far too many of us.
And still the deafening resounding
and wounded complicit silence around this very gender specific violence.
Parramatta CID 1978
fini
Dunno about youse good fellows over there
but us lot back here at the mpua hq
are well into the rolling up of a big fat ripe stogie on the inner thigh of an expat princess
who’s graced us this day all the way from Havana
who’s graced us this day all the way from Havana
as we say here in mpua land
don't drink water the fish fuck in it
don't drink water the fish fuck in it
check youse flaky derelicts later
and
a gentle reminder kiddies that somewhere
the sun is always setting on empire
the sun is always setting on empire
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