(thegingerzilla) replies to “A Letter To Gingerzilla… Staying Optimistic Despite Adversity.”
Apologies for my lax reply Les, I’ve been a busy bee with Crimbo and plotting to take over the world by revealing the truth about the Kraken. Been going through a mad writing spell. I can see you have the same issue in churning out so much.
Massive thank you for this post and of course the link. For days I had much Auz traffic all originating from the state of Bligh
I forgot I have written about Auz 3 1/2 years back. Worth reading towards the end as you will find a revelation about my origins
Will be in touch v. soon as I’ve been reading your exploits and will return the favour of enshrining your struggles in FutureHistory. The fake CCTV was utter genius.
Take care Les
Craig Mitchell (the less unhinged part attached to the alter ego)
Hullo again, Craig,
The best asset of being young is that it doesn’t take brains. It’s difficult even, to detect unabashed ugliness amongst this group and I think it takes extraordinary perception of one so affected to go forth and get all he can before the “little boxes” mentality mashes his individuality as he strives to become his neighbour. One is expected to “put away childish thoughts” but my attitude so gets up many noses that I know I’m right. A thirty year friendship tottered after my frivolous use of ‘punkum’ shitted her despite being privy to the story.
To get familiar with doco file usage and the pc in general, I worked on noting my earliest memories, one of which included a rare occasion of my father wearing a smile. As a mere baby he would give me piggy-back rides securely ensconced in the crook of his foot/leg holding my minute hands as I looked up at him pleased when he smiled broadly down at me. Not to last as my increasing weight and his varicose legs stopped the games.
Not to last from the angle of ones later misdeeds either. Got to about age four or five for my first haircut. Grim looking old men sat on forms lining the wall intently absorbing that morning’s broadsheet, reading about war happenings I expect. Out the back the baker’s delivery horse moored on shitty straw. A board was placed across the barber chair’s armrests to raise me. I leapt out of that chair and hit the toe coming to a stop a few suburbs distant.
Showed my unfinished pre-pubescent memoirs to a younger sibling who readily rubbished the style as “childish and embarrassing.” The frankness was welcome but its delivery a worry. The view as from a child had to be retained. I had no options.
There is a slim thread connecting these meanderings, not to the opening paragraphs which somehow intruded, but to the dire importance that Tyler Durden had of scaling a barbed fence to obtain fat-farm extracted blubber with which to manufacture soap for his fighters was wasted on me, what with bar soap a very cheap commodity. He might have been going through a do-it-your-self phase. I feel obliged to run that movie yet again. And I know all about Hitler’s idea of recycling.
Top script writing that era! I borrowed the fascinating, “Picnic At Hanging Rock,” from Townsville library in the late sixties and the movie that followed a few years later so fitted the mind-picture I had as I read the story that time passed before I grudgingly accepted it as fiction. The follow-up books attempt at a denouement was badly handled according to reviews at the time so I had to come back to ground in any case.
Orwell’s vision of a skewed democracy with its double-speak twenty-eight years late. The fear of detention camps firstly zips the mind, and then the lips. The likes of The Avengers and Number 96 can only bob-up today if written clandestinely. Initiative is a controlling policeman’s “dark duck.” The fat-spill no match for the Trainspotting suppository dive into the world’s most poxed shit-house. That stuff appeals to my base, gutter-bred mongrel instinct. Robert Caryle approaches 51.
The fat burning analogy surfaces and haha. Immediate post-war Australian do-gooders sent raw hen eggs to the food-short British, encased in animal fat as a preservative measure. It worked, with the fat blocking oxygen entry through shell pores. You are welcome to my fat Craig to fuel your basement furnaces, but its disdainfulness in life puts it into the eek basket.
The under bit was meant to go elsewhere, but url lost in that dirty Scot dunny:
The purpose of government is to protect the individual rights of its citizens. Since rights can be assaulted both within a country or outside of it, the government must deal with either threat. This requires an army for defense of the country, and a police system to protect the individual citizens from other individuals within the country
Ahead are spook stories from places I know:
This town owes its name to three Aboriginal words: bana (water) jindi (rain) and bunda (mountain), and each of these elements town’s tragic ghost story. A few kilometres west of the town in the foothills of the Bellenden Ker Ranges is a popular picnic spot called The Boulders- where Babinda Creek forms a chain of spectacular cascades as it rushes between large boulders
Local legend has it that a young Aboriginal girl named Oolana who was betrothed to an elder fell in love with a handsome young warrior from another tribe. They eloped but were captured and punished. Oolana committed suicide by throwing herself into the stream at The Boulders. The ghost of the dead girl is said to haunt the cascades, and some claim she draws innocent victims into the water like the legendary lorelei on the Rhine in Germany.
All of the above belongs to the realm of folklore but one fact is indisputable- no less than sixteen young, single men have died tragically by drowning at The Boulders during the past fifty years.
On a sweltering hot night in January 1872, dark crimes were committed on Carpentaria Downs Station near Einasleigh, west of Ingham. Ellen Mary Imelda Duffy, aged thirty-seven, the station’s bookkeeper, was attacked in her bedroom in the homestead. Miss Duffy’s screams for help were heard by a Chinese gardener, who ran to the house. When the murderer finished off Miss Duffy (by slitting her throat) he turned on the gardener, who ran for his life but was shot in the back. To the surprise of the whole district, the manager of Carpentaria Downs was arrested for the double murder.
Details of the affair are sketchy, but many people believed that Miss Duffy had been sent to the station by the owners to spy on the manager whom they suspected of selling ‘missing’ cattle and pocketing the proceeds. Subscribers to this theory believed the guilty manager discovered the ploy, panicked and killed Miss Duffy then, fearing the gardener would testify against him, killed him as well.
Ellen Duffy is buried in a small graveyard on the property along with twenty-six others, not one of whom died a natural death. The grave of the gardener is some distance away, marked with a single post. Stockmen on Carpentaria Downs believe that the ghost of Ellen Duffy haunts their quarters, moving softly from room to room as if searching for something. Many have wakened at night to find the spectre, dressed in a white dressing-gown, peering down at them with a puzzled expression on her sallow face.
Why the ghost should choose to haunt the stockmen’s quarters rather than the homestead where Miss Duffy met her death is a mystery. ‘Maybe the old girl likes us blokes,’ the stockmen suggest with nervous grins, ‘but we’re not too keen on ‘er.’
On Gunnawarra Station, south of the old mining town of Mount Garnett, another of those startling lights occasionally appears. According to head stockman Banjo Palmer and others who have gotten within 30 metres of this light, described as a luminous, empty sphere, it swoops down on herds of cattle causing them to break and stampede.