When I wrote my previous memoir, it was clear that I was looking for an analyst who could interpret for me the strange events I had written about. In fact, I was so much in awe of adult authority, since I considered myself still a child in part, that I expected almost anybody to be able to come up with a shrewd and effective analysis. I had been brought up by my previous society to believe that I had to earn my right to be treated like an adult, but that those who were firmly established in their countries of origin -- not having had to move, like me -- had already established their status as adults. Therefore, I was to look up to them and ask them for guidance. My father had also made it plain that I -- a "girl" -- did not deserve to be treated with respect. He had fought during the war and made tremendous sacrifices for his country, and if he was now being turfed out and treated like a dog, I did not deserve any better. After all a man deserves more than a girl, so others ought not to give me very much money if I got a job, and if they treated me badly, they were merely pinpointing, with acute perception, what it was I actually deserved. My father imparted to me the expectation that all "adults" -- meaning people who were well-established in Australia and hadn't had to move -- had remarkable X-ray vision into my inner workings.
So I advanced all my ideas as to how I should be treated very tenuously, realizing that until I was no longer a migrant, and more of a man than a woman, I would never be treated with any kind of respect, because I hadn't yet earned that.
However, I also held out hope for kind souls that would come galloping to my rescue and interpret for me the strange dilemma I was in.
I fully believed it was a long road upward for me, but by writing the book about my life I was already doing a kind of penance, as well as expressing my sincerity, and trying to come to terms with what it took to adjust to the new conditions, which would take all the powers of my ingenuity and anything that would make me more like a soldier and more like my Dad. I didn't really know that well about either his adventures of his misadventures, but I did know, as I was led to understand, that however tough I was, it was never tough enough. You can't get people who are well-established in their countries to accept you unless you are very much tougher than you are. You were turfed out because you were weak -- but they are strong, and they have lessons to impart.
Given that all of this was true, so far as I was concerned, I wrote my memoir with great expectations of breaking through, having given adequate demonstration of my suffering, good intentions and remorse.
Thus became my shamanic journey -- deep into my own psyche, to a place no-one else could reach.
I wrote the book to gain acknowledgement from others, so that I might pass through a socially initiatory sequence. Instead, my destiny took me in the opposite direction and I found that while the upward direction of recognition through climbing was blocked to me, there was a whole realm of meaning and value in existence to be found by tunnelling under.
My next book, therefore, will be in the form of a system of tunnels, and with no social ambitions at all. I have found a way to map reality through this underground network of ways and means, and my shamanic initiation is complete. I can finally be satisfied with myself and my attainments, knowing that I am now a real initiate of knowledge.
So I advanced all my ideas as to how I should be treated very tenuously, realizing that until I was no longer a migrant, and more of a man than a woman, I would never be treated with any kind of respect, because I hadn't yet earned that.
However, I also held out hope for kind souls that would come galloping to my rescue and interpret for me the strange dilemma I was in.
I fully believed it was a long road upward for me, but by writing the book about my life I was already doing a kind of penance, as well as expressing my sincerity, and trying to come to terms with what it took to adjust to the new conditions, which would take all the powers of my ingenuity and anything that would make me more like a soldier and more like my Dad. I didn't really know that well about either his adventures of his misadventures, but I did know, as I was led to understand, that however tough I was, it was never tough enough. You can't get people who are well-established in their countries to accept you unless you are very much tougher than you are. You were turfed out because you were weak -- but they are strong, and they have lessons to impart.
Given that all of this was true, so far as I was concerned, I wrote my memoir with great expectations of breaking through, having given adequate demonstration of my suffering, good intentions and remorse.
Thus became my shamanic journey -- deep into my own psyche, to a place no-one else could reach.
I wrote the book to gain acknowledgement from others, so that I might pass through a socially initiatory sequence. Instead, my destiny took me in the opposite direction and I found that while the upward direction of recognition through climbing was blocked to me, there was a whole realm of meaning and value in existence to be found by tunnelling under.
My next book, therefore, will be in the form of a system of tunnels, and with no social ambitions at all. I have found a way to map reality through this underground network of ways and means, and my shamanic initiation is complete. I can finally be satisfied with myself and my attainments, knowing that I am now a real initiate of knowledge.
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