13 years ago Currawong and I began our journey together. We’d seen each other around before that, and casually wondered about each other from a safe distance, but 13 years ago is when I was back visiting the Blue Mountains - after having emigrated to South Australia a year earlier in search of change and adventure – and we clapped eyes on each other for the first time…….
Then she got pregnant from a one night stand and had herself a baby girl. Discovered her woman power, found her witch self, and startled onto knowledge of women’s hidden past, shunted from their glory by a jealous, angry, one god. Roared at the injustices and suppression railed against her kind. Went through a time of near separatist lesbianism, rattled feminist theory, women’s literature, and her mother’s hidden faces. Tried the multitudinous forms of alternative therapy and scourged many demons from her past. New realisations began to emerge.
She shed her lesbian skin and entered the shadier waters of the bisexual realms. She mixed through the silky liquid of ambivalence and suppleness, paradox and ambiguity. The light above the murky waters she’d swum all her life was becoming stronger. Her mind and instinct swam before her, leading her onwards and upwards, towards her own truth.
She realised she’d never had a father, brother, uncle, male friend....she’d never let them in again after her childhood realisation that all men were fucked and would only feed you betrayal and lies. She’d avoided any reminder that a part of her lay in her enemy, and a part of them in her. She’d worshipped the mother and ignored the consort. She’d slept with her anger at night.
Till one day it stopped. He could feel no longer. In his rage at his world he’d destroyed even his own anger. He suddenly saw with thumping clarity his own stupidity and fear. Saw how he’d destroyed others in arrogance, and not realised till now how they reflected him. Understood that even in his seeming rebellion against the way things were and could or should be, he’d actually played a part he didn’t choose. He’d pillaged and raped his own life and become a puppet for those he despised. And he’d let his own despair fashion him a tool of hate and given his life to it. He was an empty shell. The passion he could have moulded and fed and grown had been used up in death, with hooded skulls and blood.