Hello out there in internet land, this Friday the 8th of May is the GRAND OPENING of Mud and Ink.
You are all invited to come along to the Long Gallery in Salamanca and eat some cake and cheese, drink a bit of wine or sparkly soda water and say nice things about the work.I have made a Remote Control Tony, I was wondering what would happen if we had robot leaders and you could just plug in an opinion or action.
Some “Suppositories of Wisdom” You might remember when Tony, said that no man is a suppository of all wisdom? I searched and searched the internet ala Andrew Bolt’s patented research techniques, looking for wise things dear Tony has said.
BUT THE INTERNET WAS EMPTY. So the suppositories are also blank, in homage to our dear leader.
I have put the “Tweets of Jon” onto some plates, I particularly like this one, it says, “Solar is for Sissies. Unless you dig it up and set it on fire it doesn’t count as real energy.
This work relates to mining and greed and old technologies. What happens to us as a country when there is nothing left to dig up and sell?
And this poster by Jon Kudelka is just fabulous. Please come along on Friday if you can, otherwise the show runs until Sunday the 17th of May.
I am making ceramic tampons, these tampons are made from Southern Ice Porcelain and when fired, they will be blindingly white. The icy white background will make the red words I am going to paint on them even redder.
Here they are in their very raw state, waiting for their words, waiting for their strings, waiting to be turned into PROTEST TAMPONS.
How can I look anyone in the eye when this is being done in my name?
The Anglican Parish of Gosford is a beacon of hope. Father Rod helps me to remember my humanity and shows me what a true Christian looks like. A real Christian has little resemblance to these mealy mouthed Christians of expediency, led by our current Prime Minister and his motley crew of shameless bullies and opportunists.
Australia is hurtling down the same path that Germany followed in the 1930s and those of you that roll their eyes and mutter she hit Godwin’s Law before she hit 500 words can go and play with the intelligentsia elsewhere, you have no place here on this blog.
Refugee arrivals are now recorded officially as numbers instead of names. Will we tattoo them next?
The simple tampon has now become a symbol of freedom.
As a free woman, I can walk into a shop and buy all the tampons I want. I also buy chocolate with my tampons.
Do refugee women get chocolates with their tampons? Do the guards dole out single pieces of melting Cadbury Dairy Milk along with rationed sanitary products?
Scott Morrison has dismissed a campaign of sending tampons to his office to push for more open access to female sanitary products in detention centres as a “juvenile protest”.
“That was a ridiculous protest. The policy hasn’t changed. It’s been the same for years. There’s open access and continued access on demand, female welfare officers, all of those sorts of things,” he said.
For people to be sucked in and engage in this juvenile protest I think was very unfortunate, it is very disappointing and not the sort of thing that I would have thought that people who should be more responsible in the debate should be supporting in any way,” Morrison said.
When a powerful white man tells me that my protests are ridiculous I know that I am on the right track.
And what does “all those sorts of things” even mean?
I can assume it means all those sorts of women’s issues?
I despair internet.
We are proudly trumpeting our hateful xenophobia to the world.
And I stand here and I loudly say, Not in my name. Never in my name.
Seeking Asylum is NOT ILLEGAL.
And in my despair and my powerlessness I make ceramic tampons as a protest, to show that I disagree and to show that Xenophobia has no place here with me.
I discovered Laurie Anderson in 1983 when I was struggling to define who I was. I remember the discovery of her music as a high point in an otherwise shitty year. My father had been killed in a car accident three years previously, in September 1980. In hindsight I can see that the death of my father defined the next twenty years of my life.
Seventeen is such a nothing age to be, an in between age to be, an age to grow out of.
My son is nineteen and he is struggling and so I am struggling along with him.
He is as deep and as secret as I am. He and I offer up glimpses of ourselves, sparkly shiny glimpses then we shut down. We snatch those glimpses away and we hold them tight and we pretend that everything is okay.
When really nothing is okay. Everything is okay and nothing is okay and we are walking and falling at the same time.
We show our shiny surface to the world knowing that most people will never see past the reflections and we encourage that ignorance because really, what is the point?
I drive furiously into the city to answer his call to, “come and get me please mum,” I stop at the drive through to buy an ice cream because I know that I am too tired to be driving and the sugar will help.
I photograph the cars all lined up behind me and think, this is a metaphor, this is the real truth. This is who we have become.
Our Prime Minister publicly leers at a woman’s breasts and leads us on a path that I do not want to follow, that I refuse to follow.
Father Rod with his simple call for compassion gives me hope. I need hope, I need to believe that people are basically good otherwise what is the point?
I ask you what is the point? If we have become so cruel and so self interested that instead of helping people who come begging for assistance we lock them away and demonise them in order to, in order to what?
To allay our guilt? To hide them away so that we can continue on buying all the things and eating all the drivethrough icecreams as the planet burns?
We kick those weaker than ourselves into the gutter rather than bending down and helping them up.
The government uses clever language to trick the populace into following along with their Pacific Solution and I remind you that the Pacific Solution is wrong.
It is only a short sidestep from the Pacific Solution to a Final Solution
The language is wrong.
My words feel useless and I know that I am walking and falling at the same time.
I fear that the Australia I love; the Australia that prides itself on the ideal of a fair go, is rapidly vanishing.
If we the people, you and I, do not stick our hands up now and say “STOP this is not right” I despair to imagine what the Australia of 2023 will look like.
Our Government is lying to us. We are not about to be swamped by hordes of refugees whose express purpose in life is to steal our jobs and clog up our roads. We are being asked for help by desperate people and we are kicking them in the teeth as they lie begging for mercy at at our feet.
By using words like “illegal queue jumpers” and emphasising the need for border protection, our Government both past and present, implies that the refugees who arrive here are breaking the law, and as lawbreakers, refugees are to be feared and disdained.
The Government, the opposition, and the tabloid newspapers encourage our belief that we need to be protected from refugees, which then in turn hardens our collective hearts to the plight of the refugees, allowing us to safely ignore them because they are lawbreakers.
It is not against the law to seek asylum.
We are encouraged to believe that there is a queue somewhere, that people fleeing for their lives can safely run to.
There are NO orderly checkout queues in war zones. There are no giant signs telling terrified people to stand to the left. There are only innocent people displaced by war who need our help.
I often wondered how the German people could have stood by and let the Jews and other minorities be exterminated in Concentration Camps.
I wondered how ordinary everyday people could sit back and either ignore the evil that was happening on their doorsteps, or willingly participate in it.
Now I know how the Holocaust happened because I see parallels here in my own community. There is a Concentration Camp on my very own doorstep and I drive past the rotten bloody thing every day and I DO NOTHING.
Each time I look at the razor wire and think of the children in detention at Pontville, I feel an overwhelming despair and yet I still do nothing about it.
I make excuses for my inertia. I lie to myself that I am too busy. I ask how could one woman help, what can I really do, how is it possible for one person to make a difference.
I dismiss my own power because maybe I have also bought into the government’s lie, and maybe I too am a little bit frightened of Muslim men.
And so I keep on driving past the Pontville Detention Centre, thinking thinks about the wrongness that emanates from the place and I don’t do a bloody thing.
I am ashamed of myself, Internet, deeply ashamed.
Australia is the supposed lucky country, the land of a fair go and mateship.
We have an idea about ourselves that is based on the myth of the Gallipoli digger and Lawson’s sheep stealing swaggie. We seem to think that we are a cross between Paul Hogan in Crocodile Dundee and Mel Gibson in Mad Max, when in fact we are really Sir Les Patterson bumbling along on the world stage with an idiotic smile on our faces, congratulating ourselves for our Government sanctioned cruelty and inhumanity to our fellow man.
Today this inertia of mine stops. I will no longer sit quietly by and do nothing. Apparently one paper letter is worth 20,000 signatures on a Get Up campaign, so today I am going to use an old fashioned method of having my concerns heard.
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