This is the published version. Available from Deakin Research - DRO

This is the published version. Available from Deakin Research - DRO

Fletcher, Gabrielle 2015, Self. Propagating: a strategy of encounter, Cultural studies review, vol. 21, no. 2, pp. 223-233. DOI: 10.5130/csr.v21i2.369...

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Fletcher, Gabrielle 2015, Self. Propagating: a strategy of encounter, Cultural studies review, vol. 21, no. 2, pp. 223-233. DOI: 10.5130/csr.v21i2.3696

This is the published version. ©2015, Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher Reproduced by Deakin University under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution Licence

Available from Deakin Research Online: http://hdl.handle.net/10536/DRO/DU:30085056

Cultural Studies Review volume 21 number 2 September 2015 http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/journals/index.php/csrj/index pp. 223–33 © Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher 2015  

Self. Propagating a strategy of encounter

GABRIELLE LORRAINE FLETCHER UNIVERSITY OF NEWCASTLE

    —I

It  starts  out  almost  like  every  Saturday.     The  stench  of  the  goats  next  door  is  dispersed  a  little  today  because  the  Old  Lady  has   milked   them   early   and   they   are   grazing   at   the   bottom   of   the   vacant   lot.   Normally   they  are  near  your  bedroom  window.  You  would  slide  the  window  shut  to  glaze  your   interior.     But   today   the   curtains   flutter   slightly   into   late   afternoon.   You   are   reading   Rousseau.  Your  father  mows  the  grass.  Your  mother  is  cooking  relish.  Your  brother   is  asleep.     The  mower  idles.  Cogs  down  to  a  terse  nothing.  You  put  your  book  down,  roll   off  the  bed  and  close  the  door.  Softly.  You  wait.  Wait  then  catch  your  breath.  Hold.   Discipline  your  body  into  nerve-­‐end  flex.  You  clutch  the  creep.  

ISSN 1837-8692 Cultural Studies Review 2015. © 2015 Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher. This is an Open Access article distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 Unported (CC BY 4.0) License (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/), allowing third parties to copy and redistribute the material in any medium or format and to remix, transform, and build upon the material for any purpose, even commercially, provided the original work is properly cited and states its license. Citation: Cultural Studies Review (CSR) 2015, 21, 3696, http://dx.doi.org/10.5130/csr.v21i2.3696

 

Size   eight-­‐and-­‐a-­‐half   Mongrel   Oil   Kip   leather   elastic-­‐sided   safety   boots   bump   the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  One.  Two  three.  Your  father  beats  the  dirt  and  grass  out  of   the   rubber   tread.   Seven   slighter   shuffles.   Then   one,   two,   and   three   purging   rips   across  ribbed  matting  outside  the  backdoor.   The   squeal   of   the   fly   screen   makes   you   spring.   Three-­‐step   hustle   to   your   bed.   Make   the   Doona   covers   yawn,   shove   yourself   under.   Conceal   your   being.   Cup   your   hands  behind  your  head,  stare  at  the  ceiling.     Last   week   you   were   reading   John   Kennedy   O’Toole.   Your   father   was   weeding   the  vegetable  patch.  Your  mother  made  a  quince  tart.  Your  brother  was  asleep.  The   goats  smelled  bad.   Your  father  growls  as  he  nears  your  door.     ‘Are  you  bastards  still  asleep?’   You  close  your  eyes.     Hear  him  open  your  door.  Poke  his  muzzle  in.   Your   father   makes   a   game   of   his   intrusion.   Rattles   the   doorknob   to   imply   departure.  But  you  know  the  tiny  arcing  egress  rub  across  the  carpet.     You  stay  sealed.   You   are   more   cunning   in  the   counter-­‐point.   He   is   impatient,   and   suspicious   of   your  concepts.   He  snorts.  Closes  your  door.  Goes  to  spy  on  your  brother.     You  open  your  eyes  in  victory.  Maybe  you  might  drive  away  when  you  are  old   enough  to  get  your  licence.  Sing  on  the  moon.  Or  get  a  husband  and  two  of  your  own   children.   Make   them   blonde   and   rewrite   your   mother   with   a   happy   ending.   Find   love,   make   yourself   something,   go   to   university.   Even   though   he   says   you’re   a   useless   girl.   You   will   free   yourself   with   knowing.   Things.   Like   a   lubricious   captive   moth,   it   flickers.   You   close   your   eyes   once   more,   and   float   the   charge.   Float.   Float   then  drown.  Sink.   Saturday  night  is  always  the  same. Your   father   drinks.   For   outside   sweat.   Inside   habit.   Your   mother   cooks.   Oily   fish   and   chips.  Seedy  Sunday  antidote.  Your  brother  is  revived  to  eat.   You   are   reading   Oodgeroo   Noonuccal.   You   will   stay   in   your   room   until   ten.   When  your  mother  and  brother  retreat  to  their  spaces,  your  stretch  begins.  

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You  leave  your  room,  close  your  door.  Enter  the  lounge  room.  Take  an  audit  of   your  father’s  empty  cans,  to  gauge  how  full  he  is.  You  sit  and  listen  to  his  drunken   rant.     How  hard  it  is.  How  much  he  tries.  How  being  a  black  fulluh  is  shameful.  How  much  we   take.  How  much  he  hates.  Us.   By  eleven  he  is  dangerous,  getting  hard  to  manage.  You  urge  oily  fish  and  chips  upon   him.   Try   and   hasten   him   to   go   to   sleep.   Douse   his   abusive   sparks   with   equal   repetition.     That   it’s   alright.   That   he   is   decent.   That   we   never   say   that   we   are   licked   by   tar.   That   it   is  our  fault.  Promise  that  we  love.  Him.   You   are   tired   from   the   front-­‐line   dance.   Old   manoeuvres,   always   newly   up   to   you.   Somehow  you  were  born  beyond  a  child’s  brief.  A  freshly  ancient  sentry.   Eleven-­‐thirty.  Your  father  is  eating  his  oily  fish  and  chips.  He  doesn’t  notice  that   they  look  like  contorted  Pompeii  relics.  He  tastes  nothing.  Ten  minutes  and  you  can   box  him  up.  Tidy  this  part  of  the  night.  You  want  to  scream.  Savage  him  with  truth.   But  if  you  are  too  obvious,  the  wire  will  snap.  So  you  act.  Patient.   Finally   he   enters   the   bedroom   he   shares   with   your   mother.   You   turn   off   the   lights.   You   open   your   door.   Sit   on   your   bed.   Eyes   darting   in   the   black,   dilated   for   signs.   You  wait  for  your  mother’s  voice.   You   hope   she   will   say   ‘Hurry   up’.   It’s   safer   for   her.   You   will   slither   out   to   the   lounge  room  and  steal  one  of  your  father’s  cigarettes.  Go  to  the  backdoor  and  ease   out  onto  the  steps.  Smoke  by  the  stars.  Blow  strung  up  fumes.     When   you   are   finished,   he   will   be   too.   You   don’t   want   to   hear   them.   It’s   not   right.  It’s  a  loveless  discharge.  Human  pulp.  You  watch  for  the  bathroom  light  to  go   on.  That  will  be  your  mother,  mopping  up.  But  at  least  the  horror  has  reached  end   point.  The  night  is  over,  and  you  can  get  back  to  your  room  discreetly  and  read.     Tonight  you  hear  your  mother—   ‘Get  off.  You’re  too  pissed.’     You  flash  with  rage  that  she  has  made  it  gruelling.  This  will  take  longer  than  a   cigarette.  Be  harder  than  a  stain  to  clean.     You  hear  your  father—  

Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher—Self. Propagating

225

 

‘I’m  not  pissed.  You  want  it.  Don’t  make  me  beg.’   You  stand.  Move  to  your  door.  Your  fingers  clip  onto  the  door  frame.   Your  mother—  

‘I  said  no.’   You  edge  along  the  bookcase.  Stand  at  their  door.  Hyper-­‐aroused.     Your  father—   ‘Prick  tease.  Cunt.  Slut.’   You  thump  the  wall.  To  splice.  Remind.   Then  your  mother  pleads  with  you—   ‘Go  to  bed,  love.  I’m  alright.’   Your  father  heckles.  Caught,  gutless—   ‘You’ve  got  your  Viking.  Trained  her  up.  You’re  all  the  fucken  same.’   You  hear  him  turn.  Pull  the  sheets  roughly.  Listen  to  the  cotton  threads  take  his   shape.   You  move  slowly  back  to  your  room.   Wait.  Implore  the  dark.  Compose  your  physiology.     The   goats   are   quiet.   Your   father   is   anaesthetised.   Your   mother   is   dead   tired.   Your  brother  sleeps  defensively.  You  read  the  settled  badland.   Certain,  you  close  your  door  softly.  Turn  into  your  asylum.  Breathe.     Now   you   can   act   your   age.   You   grab   an  Archie   comic.   Flop   on   your   bed.   Flick   to   the  middle.     Wonder  what  a  sea  monkey  is.   —II

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—III

Friday, 8:55pm

It’s   like   saying   that   quinces   are   pretty.   They’re   not.   What   they   are   is   decent.   Not   trying  to  be  supermodel  peaches.  Quinces  make  great  jam  is  the  point.  They  wait  in  a   candid   way   for   the   transformative   process.   That’s   how   nostalgia   is   for   me.   I   think   you  have  to  be  in  the  mood.  And  I’m  not.  Feeling  it.  Touching  it.  Smelling  it.  The  jar  is   empty  and  I  ran  out  of  labels.     Friday, 10.32pm

I  have  a  headache  trying  to  make  jam.  I  just  noticed  that  there  are  two  small  children   asleep   in   the   house   where   I’m   living.   I   wonder   where   they’ve   come   from.   I   don’t   think   I’m   their   mother   but   I’m   not   sure.   The   boy   and   girl   are   both   blonde   and   I’m   not.   Although   that   doesn’t   mean   anything.   Genes   can   play   tricks.   I   need   to   take   some   paracetamol  to  fool  my  pain  receptors.  I’ll  be  right  back.     Saturday, 11.50am

Those   kids   aren’t   mine.   I   checked   my   stomach   just   in   case   I   was   abusing   them   inadvertently.  I’d  feel  terrible  if  I  should  feel  love  for  them  and  I  didn’t.  They  looked   sweet  while  they  were  sleeping  and  when  they  saw  me  this  morning  they  used  my   name   and   smiled.   That’s   a   sign   of   something.   It   made   me   look   for   other   signs.   Markers  that  might  help.     I  sat  down  at  the  desk  and  looked  at  the  detritus.  Whoever  this  is  seems  to  read   a   lot.   They   like   texts.   All   kinds.   I   pick   one   up.   Reveries   of   a   Solitary   Walker   by   Rousseau.  Inside  is  crammed  a  copy  of  a  poem  by  Oodgeroo  Noonuccal,  Dreamtime.  I   read   about   her   ‘talk-­‐talk   place.’   Scribbled   at   the   bottom   of   the   page   ‘Placeless   poetic—“wrenched   out   of   the   natural   order”’   it   says.   Then   further   on   ‘...intensification   of   now   and   multiple   reals—nostalgic   ancestral   marrow.   You   must   edify   untelling.’   Nearby   are   still   other   forms.   Kevin   Gilbert’s   People   are   Legends.   And   a   carved   emu   egg  perched  on  a  copy  of  A  Confederacy  of  Dunces.  John  Kennedy  O’Toole.  I  touch  the   cover.  There’s  a  picture  of  a  behemoth  in  a  hunting  cap  on  the  front.     ‘Ahh.  It’s  good  that  you  are  trying  to  remember,’  I  hear  a  man’s  voice  behind  me.   ‘Maybe  something  at  your  desk  will  trigger  you.’  

Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher—Self. Propagating

227

 

His   timbre   seems   familiar.   He   moves   his   body   closer   and   I   turn.   Smiling   kind   shaven  face  meets  me.  He  leans  in  and  kisses  me.  On  the  mouth.  It’s  succulent  and   intimate.  His  rough  skin  scratches  my  face.  I  don’t  like  the  sensation  at  all.  I  can’t  say   anything  because  I  think  this  man  is  supposed  to  be  my  husband,  but  I’m  not  sure.  I   really   don’t   want   his   complication.   This   maybe   spouse   continues   to   talk   to   me.   I’m   feeling  flooded.  Marooned.     Saturday 3.34pm

My   husband   (he   said   he   is)   told   me   many   things   I   can’t   recall.   That   I’m   Aboriginal.   That  I  enjoy  grizzly,  perilous  sex.  That  I  am  in  a  constant  state  of  libidinal  requisition   and  genital  awe.  I  can’t  find  truth  in  this,  if  the  truth  be  known.  Surely  my  body  could   remember   despite   itself   and   be   aroused   by   the   avowal.   Instead,   all   my   organs   invert   at  the  thought.  It’s  obscenely  herbaceous.   He  says  I  have  motifs.  Quinces.  And  bread.  I  can  see  the  sense  in  appraising  the   packet  to  know  what  to  expect  inside.  People  are  cartons  with  bewildering  interiors.   Depths  that  can  striate  and  damage.  We  all  eat  what  we  read.  So  kind  cautions  are   critical.   I’m   not   sure   of   this   thematic   derivation,   but   it   appeals   to   my   current   thinking.  And  I  feel  educated  with  a  disciplined  mind.  Whoever  I  am.  Which  reminds   me.  My  husband  (I  think  he’s  lying)  says  that  I’m  a  shower-­‐writer.  I  think  he  means   like   singing.   It   sounds   okay   to   my   ear   but   the   real   trial   is   the   bigger   eavesdrop   beyond  the  grout.  Over  the  last  few  days  I  have  found  myself  thinking  like  a  writer.  I   like  the  idea  that  I  might  write  like  a  thinker.  I  can’t  be  sure  so  I’ll  stick  to  a  cubicle   jingle  for  now.  It  could  work  out  that  I’m  tone  deaf  in  the  end.   Saturday, 4.01pm

Something   truly   awful   happened   when   I   was   a   child.   Distilled   to   a   finitude   of   ‘it-­‐ ness’.   It   happened.   This   is   what   my   husband   was   telling   me.   It   happened   to   me   and   I   have   been   remembering   to   forget   ever   since.   My   efforts   have   been   stellar   in   attenuating   the   trauma.   I   walk   around   like   clarified   butter,   having   separated   the   sediments  and  existing  only  in  one  anchored  form—the  present.  Being  not  there  is   safe.   But   maybe   I’ve   gone   too   far   and   become   overly-­‐excellent   in   my   gaps.   I   think   this  shielding  device  is  melting  a  little  at  room  temperature,  and  this  man  (queerly   he  seems  to  have  breasts)  is  complaining  about  my  shapeless  fake-­‐tan  orgasms.  So   being  here  is  bothersome.  I  have  to  go.  It’s  him  again.  

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Saturday, 11.29pm

I’m  sitting  at  my  desk.  The  clumpy  geography  intrigues  me  like  a  tourist.  I  reach  to   touch  the  etching  on  the  emu  egg.  On  one  side  is  an  Ancestral  Being.  On  the  other,  an   image  of  a  Western  female.  I  feel  a  sudden  smack.  A  song  line  friction  noting  distant   rhythm.   Undulating   dissonance. Two-­‐world   woman   both.   Give   from   mission   friend.   Shy  tell.  See  in  eye  not  look.  No  place  every  nothing.  Always  pelican  laugh.   I   feel   something.   Of   myself.   Am   touched   by   something.   Of   myself.   Smell   meat   pies  in  the  boot  of  a  car  when  I  look  at  that  egg.  Still  scented,  I  catch  John  Kennedy   O’Toole   in   the   corner   of   my   nostril.   I’m   in   New   Orleans   in   a   spicy   brassy   Creole   precinct.   Next   in   a   trouser   house.   Then   in   a   wretched   apartment   with   a   large   and   lazy   man-­‐child   and   his   mauve   mother.   I   remember   I   love   this   anti-­‐hero   and   the   picaresque   form.   I   wanted   to   go   there.   To   understand   the   Jonathon   Swift   genius   and   O’Toole’s  suicide.  So  much  I  wrote  a  one-­‐act  play  about  it.  The  Noun  Factory  An  Act  in   One  Play,  I  called  it.     I  remember.  Longing.  Sickness.  I  remember  it.  It.  Happened.     Sunday, 9.34am

I   think   I’m   not   comfortable   with   the   involuntary.   I   choose   to   not   remember.   But   those   visceral   clutches   play   havoc   with   my   plumbing.   Jam   me   up   like   an   ugly   fruit.   It   seems  from  my  melancholy  I  have  always  wanted  to  be  not  here  or  there.  Placeless.  I   can  only  say  I  need  survival  over  nostalgia.     To  edify  untelling.       —IV

Me:    

 

Hi.  It’s  me.  

Them:      

Hello  you.  How  is  everything?  

Me:    

Not  so  good.  

 

Them:      

That’s  too  bad.  What  happened?  

Me:    

I  wrote  entries  in  that  diary  like  you  prescribed.  

 

Them:      

Then  what  happened?  

Me:    

 I  re-­‐read  them  in  my  inner  ear.  

 

Them:      

And  what  did  you  hear?  

Gabrielle Lorraine Fletcher—Self. Propagating

229

 

Me:    

 

Too  many  lies.  

Them:      

Have  you  always  told  stories?  

Me:    

I’ve  always  told  a  truth.  

 

Them:      

What  kind?  

Me:    

The  safe  kind.  

 

Them:      

Was  it  helpful?  

Me:    

No.  I’m  badgering  myself  into  perjury.  And  wasting  time  re-­‐packing.  

 

Them:    

Do  you  think  you  need  a  distraction?  

Me:    

I  enrolled  in  a  PhD.  

 

Them:      

How’s  that  going?  

Me:    

 

 It’s  difficult.  

Them:      

Why  is  that?  

Me:    

I  find  the  form  prickly.  

 

Them:      

How  so?  

Me:    

It  makes  the  point  go  ‘ouch’.    

 

Them:    

What  is  the  point?  

Me:  

It  only  wants  part  of  me.  

 

 

Them:    

Withholding  can  be  healthy.  

Me:  

It’s   become   a   splintered,   irreconcilable   tale   inside   an   ugly   fruit   I   cannot  peel.  

Them:    

There  seems  a  gap  between  you  and  it.  

Me:  

There  is  a  gap  between  me  and  other  eyes.  I  hate  the  master-­‐gaze  of   efficacy.  It  doesn’t  feel.  

Them:    

What  do  you  not  want?  

Me:  

To  be  a  cartographic  reading  diagnosed  to  graduate.  

 

Them:    

What  do  you  not  need?  

Me:  

Absence  in  the  territory.  

 

Them:      

What  can  you  do  differently?  

Me:    

Show  more  me.  

 

Them:      

How  will  you  do  it?  

Me:    

I’ll  have  to  find  a  way.    

 

 

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—V

Letter to a PhD

  ‘To  them’,  I  said,  ‘the  truth  would  be  literally  nothing  but  the  shadows  of   the  images’   Plato,  The  Republic,  Book  VII  (the  ‘cave  allegory’)     Dear  Methodology  Chapter—,   It’s  cagey  in  here.  I  don’t  want  to  make  onions  without  end,  so  we  have  to  be  clear   about  truth.  There’s  a  distorted  dance  of  selves  going  on.     Can  we  stop?  Be  still?  Act  wireless  for  now?     I   need   to   confess   you   unsettle   me.   I’m   so   dazed   and   unearthed   I’ve   become   urgent.   What   I   had   wanted   was   a   thoughtful,   disciplined   frisson   in   learning   you.   Extending  me.  Theory  with  a  truth  of  self  seemed  easy.  Radiating  comfort.  Is  that  not   the   compelling   real   when   there   is   everywhere   to   go?   And   you   seemed   to   offer   an   expansive  terrain:  a  bounded  rigour  dilated  with  creative  excess.     But  smugly,  senseless  me  had  deliberately  forgotten  this  is  intimate.   Your   expectant   edges   cut   my   spine.   Each   encounter   at   your   boundaries   like   serrations.   You   forced   my   personhood   to   recoil.   So   every   time   truth   tried   to   surface,   I   had   to   mobilise   poetic   tactics   to   sink   the   revelations.   And   make   bandages   of   metaphors.  It  has  been  a  constant  re-­‐production  of  the  patterns  of  pursuit/retreat;   of  show  and  tell.  Exposure  similitudes.  Those  verify/deny  duplicities,  all  variants  of   fear.     I   have   understood   the   jostling.   Remained   despite   the   nettle.   And   can   say   with   gripping  decency  I  have  been  honest  wherever  I  have  scurried.     I’m  anxious  though.     It’s   what   I   have   implied   inside   your   implications,   where   so   much   meaning   circulates  regardless  of  what  is  meant.  I  don’t  like  this  fraying  insight.  Or  the  sense   that  I  am  a  simultaneous  actor  rehearsing  for  a  part  in  knowledge.     I   used   to   perform   stand-­‐up   comedic   monologues.   I   knew   I   was   making   styled   sets   of   other   selves   from   slippages   to   speak   to   the   cracks   I   had   grown   up   in.   They   were  shards  of  a  master  text.  Clumsy  disguises  of  a  staged  expose.  But  I  have  always  

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found  the  captive  self  an  uncomfortable  exhibit.  I  prefer  to  edit  the  body  on  the  page.   I   always   have.   I   think   because   my   family   seemed   absurdly   fictional.   True   things   seemed  invented.  It  was  a  strange  inversion.  Words  seemed  more  real  to  me,  more   normal.  Even  as  a  tiny  ugly  fruit  with  crayons     It’s   funny.   Quinces   have   inhabited   my   life   since   I   can   remember.   Everything   my   father   did   not   like   received   his   sententious   ‘Lick   my   quince’.   When   my   mother   confronted   him   with   his   own   reflection,   he   told   the   truth   to   lick   his   quince.   If   my   brother   or   I   required   some   normal   range   of   fathering,   the   inconvenience   to   his   drinking  told  us  to  lick  his  quince.    Ironic.  Paris  gave  Aphrodite  a  quince  as  a  mark  of  love.   A   fruit   displaced   became   a   placeless   place.   For   us.   Maybe   families   are   heterotopias   after   all.   Mine   seemed   so.   I   remember   feeling   so   much   not   like   them.   Not   knowing   why.   I   looked   like   them,   so   couldn’t   doubt   that   I   was   marked   to   fit   somehow.  But  I  felt  like  I  had  been  hatched  from  a  potato  somewhere  else.  I  didn’t   speak   like   my   family;   didn’t   think   like   my   family.   Could   only   find   sameness   in   the   reductive   prowess   of   my   father   and   the   unifying   awfulness   of   his   abusive   oppression.     I   told   a   friend   about   this   once.   She   said   that   I   was   a   strange   genetic   graft.   Something   hybrid,   an   unexpected   yield.   I   think   it   was   supposed   to   be   affirming.   It   felt  like  quince  licking  to  me.  So  I  was  silent  after  that.  Just  kept  rehearsing.   But  now  I  act.   I  cannot  be  limited  by  your  straight  lines  anymore,  or  the  arguments  that  you   don’t   live:   mapping   me;   mapping   them.   You   make   words   into   chairs   on   a   bus   tour.   It   is   a   space   where   bodies   cannot   stand   or   walk   in   earth   to   feel   or   understand   beneath   the  traces  you  impose.  What  I  want  is  a  place  to  experience  what  is  possible.  But  to   make  lies  of  ‘what  is’  would  be  pointless.  I  cannot  paint  in  disremembered  strokes.   Or   ignore   the   fault   lines   in   showing/telling   of   reduction.   For   so   long   as   a   child,   I   wanted   to   know   what   I   wasn’t,   to   explore   and   shelter   in   the   places   that   could   not   be   my   father.   Being   told   I   should   be   proud   of   ‘being   blackfulla’   as   I   watched   my   mother   bleed.  As  an  adult  perhaps  I  have  found  false  security  in  concepts;  an  inert  space  of   resistance  or  immunity.     Painfully.  So  slowly.  Suddenly  we’re  here.     My  father  an  Elder.  

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Me  an  Academic.     All   of   us   trapped   in   sediments   of   knowledge   engaged   in   an   uncomfortable   smack  of  knowing.     Certain   in   the   uncertainty   of   how   we   arrived.   Hanging   from   the   limbs   of   ghosts,   in  a  tricky  bond  of  bruising.  Sharing  ancient  weather.     It  is  a  point  of  cultural  truce.     Finally,   an   authentic   self   is   all   I   seek.   I   don’t   know   where   it   lurks.   Perhaps   somewhere  where  the  schisms  are  companions.  A  strategy  of  encounter  where  the   writing/reading  meets.     It  feels  good  to  leak.   To  spill  the  truth,  although  I  still  prefer  to  supplant  than  claim.  Finally  all  this   textual  scat  is  unified  and  I  can  focus  on  a  sole  despair  of  self.   Bare  or  bear.  Without  consent.  More  than  faithful  to  my  words.   Thank  you  for  your  clarifying  precinct.   me     — Gabrielle   Lorraine   Fletcher   is   a   Gundungurra   woman   from   the   Blue   Mountains   of   New   South   Wales.   She   is   currently   an  associate   lecturer   and   PhD   (Aboriginal   Studies)   candidate   at   the   Wollotuka   Institute,   University   of   Newcastle.   Her   thesis   explores   the   possibilities   of   authentic   Aboriginal   self-­‐hood   within   the   redactive   spaces   of  post-­‐colonial   theatres.   She   has   been   previously   published   in   Cultural   Studies   Review   and   Salt:   The   International   Journal   of   Poetry   and   Poetics.   .  

 

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