Academic literature on the topic 'Dreamtime (Aboriginal Australian mythology)'

In Black Words White Page (2004), his seminal study of Aboriginal cultural production in Australia, Adam Shoemaker notes that ‘when Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s first collection of poetry appeared in print in 1964, a new phase of cultural communication began in Australia’ (2004, p. 5). The ‘new phase’ to which Shoemaker refers pertains to the many plays, collections of poetry and novels by Aboriginal authors published between 1964 and 1988 and directed to Australian and international audiences. Flying under the radar of scholarly attention, Aboriginal authors and artists also produced significant numbers of children’s books during this time, including Wilf Reeves and Olga Miller’s The Legends of Moonie Jarl, published by Jacaranda Press in 1964 (see O’Conor 2007), Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s Stradbroke Dreamtime (1972), and the picture books of Dick Roughsey and many other Aboriginal authors and artists (see Bradford 2001, pp. 159-90).

Different from many other communities, Australian aboriginal communities had lived separately from the rest of the world without any contact with great civilizations for tens of thousands of years before English men’s invasion of Australian continent. Hence, their socio-economic development standards was backward, which can be clearly seen in their economic activities, material culture, mental culture, social institutions, mode of life, etc. However, in the course of history, Australian aborigines created a grandiose cultural heritage of originality with unique identities of their own in particular, of Australia in general. Despite the then wild life, Aboriginal Art covers a wide medium including painting on leaves, wood carving, rock carving, sculpture, sandpainting and ceremonial clothing, as well as artistic decorations found on weaponry and also tools. They created an enormous variety of art styles, original and deeply rich in a common viewpoint towards their background – Dreamtime and Dreaming. This philosophy of arts is reflected in each of rock engravings and rock paintings, bark paintings, cave paintings, etc. with the help of natural materials. Although it can be said that most Aboriginal communities’ way of life, belief system are somewhat similar, each Australian aboriginal community has its own language, territory, legend, customs and practices, and unique ceremonies. Due to the limit of a paper, the author focuses only on some traditional art forms typical of Australian aboriginal communities. These works were simply created but distinctively original, of earthly world but associated with sacred and spiritual life deeply flavored by a mysterious touch. Reflected by legendary stories and art works, the history of Australian Aboriginal people leaves to the next generations a marvelous heritage of mental culture.

Over 1000 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander soldiers fought in WW1, at a time when they had few rights on home soil. While on active duty many of these soldiers received the same conditions and respect as their non-Indigenous counterparts. Yet when they returned it was back to a life of discrimination, and their stories were silenced. In the decades after the war, Indigenous voices were rarely present in the memorialising of the ANZAC legend. For museums trying to commemorate the centenary of WWI the absence of tangible collections relating to Indigenous soldiers presents a challenge. How do you exhibit what you do not have? In recent years the arts have been one of the most prominent means of drawing attention to the experiences of those who served. From the play Black Diggers to Tony Albert’s sculptural installation Yininmadyemi-Thou didst let them fall, leading artists have been creating spaces for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to commemorate family members’ contributions, and raise their stories into the collective Australian consciousness. This paper will explore the role that the arts can play in creating a true and representative ANZAC mythology within Australia’s cultural institutions.

The tree stands as a sacred symbol in many faith traditions. Unsurprisingly, nature-based new religious movements are no exception. This article considers the manifestation of sacred trees in a number of religious traditions, including Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander spirituality, Abrahamic traditions, Ancient Egyptian religion, Buddhism, Hinduism, Norse mythology, the Shinto faith, and nature-based new religious movements. After this initial section, I present the findings of a fieldwork project undertaken in 2016. Using the survey as a tool, this project enquired into the use of trees, plants, and private gardens among practitioners from nature-based new religious movements. This survey makes use of both quantitative and qualitative survey methods, having been distributed to various nature-based new religious movements in New Zealand, Australia, Europe, the United States, and the United Kingdom. Despite extensive tree lore, these survey results present the tree as a peripheral plant in the practitioners' everyday practice, with the garden as a whole being more critical than any single variety of vegetation.

Abstract Through a close study of T. Yunkaporta's 2019’s Sand Talk, this article explores fractal thinking and the pattern of creation in Indigenous cosmology; the role of custodianship in respectful interaction between living systems; alternative Indigenous understandings of nonlinearity, time, and transience; the process-panpsychism and animism present in Indigenous perceptions of cosmos as living Country, illustrated in the Dreaming and Turnaround creation event; the role of embodied cognition and haptic and situated knowledge in Indigenous science; Indigenous holistic reasoning and the mind-body connection; the process-relational metaphysic embedded in ritual and yarning practice; the knowledge encoded in place-based totemic mythology, lore, and ritual; and Indigenous understandings of complex systems as adaptive, self-organizing, and patterned. This article does not offer a process reading of Indigenous thought but rather demonstrates the significant contribution to process metaphysics that may be provided by an Aboriginal Australian perspective. Yunkaporta's text carves out a language of resistance to the McDonaldization of Indigenous research. While historic scholarly engagement with Aboriginal culture has overemphasized content, Yunkaporta demonstrates how this has occurred to the exclusion of the processes of Indigenous knowledge transmission and creation. Yet a process view requires engagement with the how, not only with the what. Such knowledge transmission is discerned in daily lived relationships among land, spirit, and people—binding epistemology to participation in a specific landscape embedded within a living culture. Place-making for Indigenous knowledges requires exploring how Indigenous ways of valuing, knowing, and being, shaped by cultural activities on Country, offer new understandings for Western metaphysics.

‘Landscape: the land escapes (1) when we try to seize it with our maps, satellites, geographic information systems and Street Views, land is what evades our surveillance (2) land is the terrain of escape.’ (Cubitt 2012)‘Since the middle of the twentieth century, the claim that something is art does not imply what it might have meant at the end of the nineteenth century, when it was made out to be a hallmark of European high and bourgeois society.’ (Heyd 2012, 287)The destruction of Indigenous rock art sites in the Pilbara district in Western Australia has become a natural sight within the mining landscape of the area. Whilst much of the destruction is explained as acts of vandalism and as a result of the industrial activities that are propelling the Australian economy, I claim that a new theory of iconoclasm is needed to explain fully this disastrous example of heritage conservation. Henceforth, in order to explain the destruction of the Murujuga/Burrup Peninsula petroglyphs, the largest archaeological site in the world, this paper develops the theory of landscape iconoclasm. This theory states that the destruction of Indigenous landscapes can be compared to the destruction of religious images, by analysing the inherent symbolic functions of iconoclasm, together with those of heritage, the better to elucidate the state of affairs in the Murujuga/Burrup Peninsula. Furthermore, by drawing from Aboriginal mythology and art-historical and anthropological theories, the theory of landscape iconoclasm is able to explain the destruction of archaeological sites within a framework that falls outside prevalent discourses of heritage.

The usual postmodern suspicions about diligently deciphering authorial intent or stridently seeking fixed meaning/s and/or binary distinctions in an artistic work aside, this self-indulgent essay pushes the boundaries regarding normative academic research, for it focusses on my own (minimally celebrated) published creative writing’s status as a literary innovation. Dedicated to illuminating some of the less common denominators at play in Australian horror, my paper recalls the creative writing process involved when I set upon the (arrogant?) goal of creating a new genre of creative writing: that of the ‘Aboriginal Fantastic’. I compare my work to the literary output of a small but significant group (2.5% of the population), of which I am a member: Aboriginal Australians. I narrow my focus even further by examining that creative writing known as Aboriginal horror. And I reduce the sample size of my study to an exceptionally small number by restricting my view to one type of Aboriginal horror literature only: the Aboriginal vampire novel, a genre to which I have contributed professionally with the 2011 paperback and 2012 e-book publication of That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance! However, as this paper hopefully demonstrates, and despite what may be interpreted by some cynical commentators as the faux sincerity of my taxonomic fervour, Aboriginal horror is a genre noteworthy for its instability and worthy of further academic interrogation.Surprising to many, Aboriginal Australian mythology includes at least one truly vampire-like entity, despite Althans’ confident assertion that the Bunyip is “Australia’s only monster” (16) which followed McKee’s equally fearless claim that “there is no blackfella tradition of zombies or vampires” (201). Gelder’s Ghost Stories anthology also only mentions the Bunyip, in a tale narrated by Indigenous man Percy Mumbulla (250). Certainly, neither of these academics claim Indigeneity in their ethnicity and most Aboriginal Australian scholars will happily agree that our heterogeneous Indigenous cultures and traditions are devoid of opera-cape wearing Counts who sleep in coffins or are repelled by crucifix-wielding Catholics. Nevertheless, there are fascinating stories--handed down orally from one generation to the next (Australian Aborigines, of course, have no ancestral writing system)--informing wide-eyed youngsters of bloodsucking, supernatural entities that return from the grave to feed upon still living blackfellas: hence Unaipon describes the red-skinned, fig tree-dwelling monster, the “Yara Ma Yha Who […] which sucks the blood from the victim and leaves him helpless upon the ground” (218). Like most vampires, this monster imparts a similarly monstrous existence upon his prey, which it drains of blood through the suckers on its fingers, not its teeth. Additionally, Reed warns: “Little children, beware of the Yara-ma-yha-who! If you do not behave yourselves and do as you are told, they will come and eat you!” (410), but no-one suggests this horrible creature is actually an undead human.For the purposes of this paper at least, the defining characteristics of a vampire are firstly that it must have once been an ordinary, living human. Secondly, it must have an appetite for human blood. Thirdly, it must have a ghoulish inability to undergo a permanent death (note, zombies, unlike vampires it seems, are fonder of brains than fresh hemoglobin and are particularly easy to dispatch). Thus, according to my criteria, an arguably genuine Aboriginal Australian vampire is referred to when Bunson writes of the Mrart being an improperly buried member of the tribe who has returned after death to feed upon the living (13) and when Cheung notes “a number of vampire-like creatures were feared, most especially the mrart, the ghost of a dead person who attacked victims at night and dragged them away from campsites” (40). Unfortunately, details regarding this “number of vampire-like creatures” have not been collated, nor I fear, in this era of rapidly extinguishing Aboriginal Australian language use, are they ever likely to be.Perhaps the best hope for preservation of these little known treasures of our mythology lies not with anthropologists but with the nation’s Indigenous creative writers. Yet no blackfella novelist, apparently, has been interested in the monstrous, bloodsucking, Aboriginal Undead. Despite being described as dominating the “Black Australian novel” (Shoemaker 1), writer Mudrooroo--who has authored three vampire novels--reveals nothing of Aboriginal Australian vampirology in his texts. Significantly, however, Mudrooroo states that Aboriginal Australian novelists such as he “are devoting their words to the Indigenous existential being” (Indigenous 3). Existentiality, of course, has to do with questions of life, death and dying and, for we Aboriginal Australians, such questions inevitably lead to us addressing the terrible consequences of British invasion and genocide upon our cultural identity, and this is reflected in Mudrooroo’s effective use of the vampire trope in his three ‘Ghost Dreaming’ novels, as they are also known. Mudrooroo’s bloodsuckers, however, are the invading British and Europeans in his extended ‘white man as ghost’ metaphor: they are not sourced from Aboriginal Australian mythology.Mudrooroo does, notably, intertwine his story of colonising vampires in Australia with characters created by Bram Stoker in his classic novel Dracula (1897). He calls his first Aborigine to become a familiar “Renfield” (Undying 93), and even includes a soft-porn re-imagining of an encounter between characters he has inter-textually named “Lucy” and “Mina” (Promised 3). This potential for a contemporary transplantation of Stoker’s European characters to Australia was another aspect I sought to explore in my novel, especially regarding semi-autobiographical writing by mixed-race Aboriginal Australians such as Mudrooroo and myself. I wanted to meta-fictionally insert my self-styled anti-hero into a Stoker-inspired milieu. Thus my work features a protagonist who is confused and occasionally ambivalent about his Aboriginal identity. Brought up as Catholic, as I was, he succumbs to an Australian re-incarnation of Stoker’s Dracula as Anti-Christ and finds himself battling the true-believers of the Catholic Church, including a Moroccan version of Professor Van Helsing and a Buffy-like, quasi-Islamic vampire slayer.Despite his once revered status, Mudrooroo is now exiled from the Australian literary scene as a result of his claim to Indigeneity being (apparently) disproven (see Clark). Illness and old age prevent him from defending the charges, hence it is unlikely that Mudrooroo (or Colin Johnson as he was formerly known) will further develop the Aboriginal Australian vampire trope in his writing. Which situation leaves me to cautiously identify myself as the sole Aboriginal Australian novelist exploring Indigenous vampires in his/her creative writing, as evidenced by my 312 page novel That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance!, which was a prescribed text in a 2014 Indiana University course on World Literature (Halloran).Set in a contemporary Australia where disparate existential explanations including the Aboriginal Dreamtime, Catholicism, vampirism and atheism all co-exist, the writing of my novel was motivated by the question: ‘How can such incongruent ideologies be reconciled or bridged?’ My personal worldview is influenced by all four of these explanations for the mysteries of life and death: I was brought up in Catholicism but schooled in scientific methodology, which evolved into an insipid atheism. Culturally I was drawn to the gothic novel and developed an intellectual interest in Stoker’sDracula and its significance as a pro-Catholic, covert mission of proselytization (see Starrs 2004), whilst simultaneously learning more of my totem, Garrawi (the Sulphur-crested White Cockatoo), and the Aboriginal Dreamtime legends of my ancestral forebears. Much of my novel concerns questions of identity for a relatively light-complexioned, mixed ancestry Aboriginal Australian such as myself, and the place such individuals occupy in the post-colonial world. Mudrooroo, perhaps, was right in surmising that we Aboriginal Australian authors are devoted to writing about “the Indigenous existential being” for my Aboriginal vampire novel is at least semi-autobiographical and fixated on the protagonist’s attempts to reconcile his atheism with his Dreamtime teachings and Catholicism. But Mudrooroo’s writing differs markedly from my own when it comes to the expectations he has regarding the audience’s acceptance of supernatural themes. He apparently fully believed in the possibility of such unearthly spirits existing, and wrote of the “Maban Reality” whereby supernatural events are entirely tenable in the Aboriginal Australian world-view, and the way these matters are presented suggests he expects the reader to be similarly convinced. With this Zeitgeist, Mudrooroo’s ‘Ghost Dreaming’ novels can be accurately described as Aboriginal Gothic. In this genre, Chanady explains, “the supernatural, as well as highly improbable events, are presented without any comment by the magical realist narrator” ("Magic Realism" 431).What, then, is the meaning of Aboriginal Gothic, given we Aboriginal peoples have no haunted castles or mist-shrouded graveyards? Again according to Chanady, as she set out in her groundbreaking monograph of 1985, in a work of Magical Realism the author unquestioningly accepts the supernatural as credible (10-12), even as, according to Althans, it combines “the magical and realist, into a new perspective of the world, thus offering alternative ways and new approaches to reality” (26). From this general categorisation, Althans proposes, comes the specific genre of Aboriginal Gothic, which is Magical Realism in an Indigenous context that creates a “cultural matrix foreign to a European audience [...] through blending the Gothic mode in its European tradition with the myths and customs of Aboriginal culture” (28-29). She relates the Aboriginal Gothic to Mudrooroo’s Maban Reality due to its acting “as counter-reality, grounded in the earth or country, to a rational worldview and the demands of a European realism” (28). Within this category sit not only the works of Aboriginal Australian novelists such as Mudrooroo, but also more recent novels by Aboriginal Australian writers Kim Scott and Alexis Wright, who occasionally indulge in improbable narratives informed by supernatural beings (while steering disappointingly clear of vampires).But there is more to the Aboriginal Gothic than a naïve acceptance of Maban Reality, or, for that matter, any other Magical Realist treatments of Aboriginal Australian mythology. Typically, the work of Aboriginal Gothic writers speaks to the historical horrors of colonisation. In contrast to the usually white-authored Australian Gothic, in which the land down under was seen as terrifying by the awestruck colonisers, and the Aborigine was portrayed as “more frightening than any European demon” (Turcotte, "Australian Gothic" 10), the Aboriginal Gothic sometimes reverses roles and makes the invading white man the monster. The Australian Gothic was for Aborigines, “a disabling, rather than enabling, discourse” (Turcotte, "Australian Gothic" 10) whilst colonial Gothic texts egregiously portrayed the colonised subject as a fearsome and savage Other. Ostensibly sub-human, from a psychoanalytic point of view, the Aborigine may even have symbolised the dark side of the British settler, but who, in the very act of his being subjugated, assures the white invader of his racial superiority, moral integrity and righteous identity. However, when Aboriginal Australian authors reiterate, when we subjugated savages wrestle the keyboard away, readers witness the Other writing back, critically. Receivers of our words see the distorted and silencing master discourse subverted and, indeed, inverted. Our audiences are subjectively repositioned to see the British Crown as the monster. The previously presumed civil coloniser is instead depicted as the author and perpetrator of a violently racist, criminal discourse, until, eventually, s/he is ultimately ‘Gothicised’: eroded and made into the Other, the villainous, predatory savage. In this style of vicious literary retaliation Mudrooroo excelled. Furthermore, as a mixed ancestry Aborigine, like myself, Mudrooroo represented in his very existence, the personification of Aboriginal Gothic, for as Idilko Riendes writes, “The half caste is reminiscent of the Gothic monstrous, as the half caste is something that seems unnatural at first, evoking fears” (107). Perhaps therein lies a source of the vehemency with which some commentators have pilloried Mudrooroo after the somewhat unconvincing evidence of his non-Indigeneity? But I digress from my goal of explicating the meaning of the term Aboriginal Gothic.The boundaries of any genre are slippery and one of the features of postmodern literature is its deliberate blurring of boundaries, hence defining genres is not easy. Perhaps the Gothic can be better understood when the meaning of its polar opposite, the Fantastic, is better understood. Ethnic authorial controversies aside and returning to the equally shady subject of authorial intent, in contrast to the Aboriginal Gothic of novelists Mudrooroo, Scott and Wright, and their accepting of the supernatural as plausible, the Fantastic in literature is characterised by an enlightened rationality in which the supernatural is introduced but ultimately rejected by the author, a literary approach that certainly sits better with my existential atheism. Chanady defined and illustrated the genre as follows: “the fantastic […] reaffirmed hegemonic Western rational paradigms by portraying the supernatural in a contradictory manner as both terrifying and logically impossible […] My examples of the fantastic were drawn from the work of major French writers such as Merimee and Maupassant” ("Magic Realism" 430). Unfortunately, Chanady was unable to illustrate her concept of the Fantastic with examples of Aboriginal horror writing. Why? Because none existed until my novel was published. Whereas Mudrooroo, Scott and Wright incorporated the Magical Realism of Aboriginal Australian mythology into their novels, and asked their readers to accept it as not only plausible but realistic and even factual, I wanted to create a style that blends Aboriginal mythology with the European tradition of vampires, but ultimately rejects this “cultural matrix” due to enlightened rationality, as I deliberately and cynically denounce it all as fanciful superstition.Certainly, the adjective “fantastic” is liberally applied to much of what we call Gothic horror literature, and the sub-genre of Indigenous vampire literature is not immune to this confusion, with non-Australian Indigenous author Aaron Carr’s 1995 Native American vampire novel, The Eye Killers, unhelpfully described in terms of the “fantastic nature of the genre” (Tillett 149). In this novel,Carr exposes contemporary Native American political concerns by skillfully weaving multiple interactive dialogues with horror literature and film, contemporary U.S. cultural preoccupations, postmodern philosophies, traditional vampire lore, contemporary Native literature, and Native oral traditions. (Tillett 150)It must be noted, however, that Carr does not denounce the supernatural vampire and its associated folklore, be it European or Laguna/Kerasan/Navajo, as illogical or fanciful. This despite his “dialogues with […] contemporary U.S. cultural preoccupations [and] postmodern philosophies”. Indeed, the character “Diana” at one stage pretends to pragmatically denounce the supernatural whilst her interior monologue strenuously defends her irrational beliefs: the novel reads: “‘Of course there aren’t any ghosts,’ Diana said sharply, thinking: Of course there were ghosts. In this room. Everywhere” (197). In taking this stock-standard approach of expecting the reader to believe wholeheartedly in the existence of the Undead, Carr locates his work firmly in the Aboriginal Gothic camp and renders commentators such as Tillett liable to be called ignorant and uninformed when they label his work fantastic.The Aboriginal Gothic would leave the reader convinced a belief in the supernatural is non-problematic, whereas the Aboriginal Fantastic novel, where it exists, would, while enjoying the temporary departure from the restraints of reality, eventually conclude there are no such things as ghosts or vampires. Thus, my Aboriginal Fantastic novel That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance! was intended from the very beginning of the creative writing process to be an existentially diametric alternative to Magical Realism and the Aboriginal Gothic (at least in its climactic denouement). The narrative features a protagonist who, in his defeat, realises the danger in superstitious devotion and in doing so his interior monologue introduces to the literary world the new Aboriginal Fantastic genre. Despite a Foucauldian emphasis in most of my critical analysis in which an awareness of the constructed status and nature of the subject/focus of knowledge undermines the foundations of any reductive typology, I am unhesitant in my claim to having invented a new genre of literature here. Unless there is, undiscovered by my research, a yet-to-be heralded work of Aboriginal horror that recognises the impossibility of its subject, my novel is unique even while my attitude might be decried as hubristic. I am also cognizant of the potential for angry feedback from my Aboriginal Australian kin, for my innovative genre is ultimately denigrating of all supernatural devotion, be it vampiric or Dreamtime. Aboriginal Fantastic writing rejects such mythologies as dangerous, fanciful superstition, but I make the (probably) too-little-too-late defence that it rejects the Indigenous existential rationale somewhat less vigorously than it rejects the existential superstitions of Catholicism and/or vampirism.This potential criticism I will forbear, perhaps sullenly and hopefully silently, but I am likely to be goaded to defensiveness by those who argue that like any Indigenous literature, Aboriginal Australian writing is inherently Magical Realist, and that I forsake my culture when I appeal to the rational. Chanady sees “magic realism as a mode that expresses important points of view, often related to marginality and subalternity” ("Magic Realism" 442). She is not alone in seeing it as the generic cultural expression of Indigenous peoples everywhere, for Bhabha writes of it as being the literature of the postcolonial world (6) whilst Rushdie sees it as the expression of a third world consciousness (301). But am I truly betraying my ancestral culture when I dismiss the Mrart as mere superstition? Just because it has colour should we revere ‘black magic’ over other (white or colourless) superstitions? Should we not suspect, as we do when seated before stage show illusionists, some sleight of (writing) hand? Some hidden/sub-textual agenda meant to entertain not educate? Our world has many previously declared mysteries now easily explained by science, and the notion of Earth being created by a Rainbow Serpent is as farcical to me as the notion it was created a few thousand years ago in seven days by an omniscient human-like being called God. If, in expressing this dubiousness, I am betraying my ancestors, I can only offer detractors the feeble defence that I sincerely respect their beliefs whilst not personally sharing them. I attempt no delegitimising of Aboriginal Australian mythology. Indeed, I celebrate different cultural imaginaries for they make our quotidian existence more colourful and enjoyable. There is much pleasure to be had in such excursions from the pedantry of the rational.Another criticism I might hear out--intellectually--would be: “Most successful literature is Magical Realist, and supernatural stories are irresistible”, a truism most commercially successful authors recognise. But my work was never about sales, indeed, the improbability of my (irresistible?) fiction is didactically yoked to a somewhat sanctimonious moral. My protagonist realises the folly and danger in superstitious devotion, although his atheistic epiphany occurs only during his last seconds of life. Thus, whilst pushing this barrow of enlightened rationality, my novel makes a somewhat original contribution to contemporary Australian culture, presenting in a creative writing form rather than anthropological report, an understanding of the potential for melding Aboriginal mythology with Catholicism, the “competing Dreamtimes, white and black” as Turcotte writes ("Re-mastering" 132), if only at the level of ultimately accepting, atheistically, that all are fanciful examples of self-created beyond-death identity, as real--or unreal--as any other religious meme. Whatever vampire literature people read, most such consumers do not believe in the otherworldly antagonists, although there is profound enjoyment to be had in temporarily suspending disbelief and even perpetuating the meme into the mindsets of others. Perhaps, somewhere in the sub-conscious, pre-rational recesses of our caveman-like brains, we still wonder if such supernatural entities reflect a symbolic truth we can’t quite apprehend. Instead, we use a totemic figure like the sultry but terrifying Count Dracula as a proxy for other kinds of primordial anxieties we cannot easily articulate, whether that fear is the child rapist on the loose or impending financial ruin or just the overwhelming sense that our contemporary lifestyles contain the very seeds of our own destruction, and we are actively watering them with our insouciance.In other words, there is little that is new in horror. Yes, That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance! is an example of what I call the new genre of Aboriginal Fantastic but that claim is not much of an original contribution to knowledge, other than being the invention of an extra label in an unnecessarily formalist/idealist lexicon of literary taxonomy. Certainly, it will not create a legion of fans. But these days it is difficult for a novelist to find anything really new to write about, genre-wise, and if there is a reader prepared to pay hard-earned money for a copy, then I sincerely hope they do not feel they have purchased yet another example of what the HBO television show Californication’s creative writing tutor Hank Moody (David Duchovny) derides as “lame vampire fiction” (episode 2, 2007). I like to think my Aboriginal Fantastic novel has legs as well as fangs. References Althans, Katrin. Darkness Subverted: Aboriginal Gothic in Black Australian Literature and Film. Bonn: Bonn UP, 2010. Bhabha, Homi. Nation and Narration. London and New York: Routledge, 1990. Bunson, Matthew. The Vampire Encyclopedia. New York: Gramercy Books, 1993. Carr, Aaron A. Eye Killers. Norman: U of Oklahoma P, 1995. Chanady, Amaryll. Magical Realism and the Fantastic: Resolved versus Unresolved Antinomy. New York: Garland Publishing, 1985. Chanady, Amaryll. “Magic Realism Revisited: The Deconstruction of Antinomies.” Canadian Review of Comparative Literature (June 2003): 428-444. Cheung, Theresa. The Element Encyclopaedia of Vampires. London: Harper Collins, 2009. Clark, Maureen. Mudrooroo: A Likely Story: Identity and Belonging in Postcolonial Australia. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2007. Gelder, Ken. The Oxford Book of Australian Ghost Stories. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1994. Halloran, Vivien. “L224: Introduction to World Literatures in English.” Department of English, Indiana University, 2014. 2 Aug. 2014 ‹http://www.indiana.edu/~engweb/undergradCourses_spring.shtml›. McKee, Alan. “White Stories, Black Magic: Australian Horror Films of the Aboriginal.”Aratjara: Aboriginal Culture and Literature in Australia. Eds. Dieter Riemenschneider and Geoffrey V. Davis. Amsterdam: Rodopi Press (1997): 193-210. Mudrooroo. The Indigenous Literature of Australia. Melbourne: Hyland House, 1997. Mudrooroo. The Undying. Sydney: Harper Collins, 1998. Mudrooroo. The Promised Land. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2000. Reed, Alexander W. Aboriginal Myths, Legends and Fables. Sydney: Reed New Holland, 1999. Riendes, Ildiko. “The Use of Gothic Elements as Manifestations of Regaining Aboriginal Identity in Kim Scott’s Benang: From the Heart.” Topos 1.1 (2012): 100-114. Rushdie, Salman. “Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” Imaginary Homelands: Essays and Criticism 1981-1991. London: Granta and Penguin Books, 1991. Shoemaker, Adam. Mudrooroo. Sydney: Harper Collins, 1993. Starrs, D. Bruno. “Keeping the Faith: Catholicism in Dracula and its Adaptations.” Journal of Dracula Studies 6 (2004): 13-18. Starrs, D. Bruno. That Blackfella Bloodsucka Dance! Saarbrücken, Germany: Just Fiction Edition (paperback), 2011; Starrs via Smashwords (e-book), 2012. Tillett, Rebecca. “‘Your Story Reminds Me of Something’: Spectacle and Speculation in Aaron Carr’s Eye Killers.” Ariel: A Review of International English Literature 33.1 (2002): 149-73. Turcotte, Gerry. “Australian Gothic.” Faculty of Arts — Papers, University of Wollongong, 1998. 2 Aug. 2014 ‹http://ro.uow.edu.au/artspapers/60/›. Turcotte, Gerry. “Re-mastering the Ghosts: Mudrooroo and Gothic Refigurations.” Mongrel Signatures: Reflections on the Work of Mudrooroo. Ed. Annalisa Oboe. Amsterdam: Rodopi Press (2003): 129-151. Unaipon, David. Legendary Tales of the Australian Aborigines. Eds. Stephen Muecke and Adam Shoemaker. Carlton: The Miegunyah Press, 2006.

The realm of the arts is often viewed as the stronghold in the last line of defence against the enduring colonisation process of the minority Aboriginal populace. It is one of few avenues in Australian society where Aboriginal people can have a voice and fortunately this is partly driven by the influence of the outside international artworld. In more recent years the digital production areas have further enabled the space and recognition for self-determined, culturally specific and diverse sources of creativity, exchange and community building. This is all despite a culture war where mainstream institutions such as the galleries sector, the associated funding bodies, academia and the media are all being utilised and strengthened as non-military mechanisms of imperialism.

Kanyirninpa, or holding, exists as a deeply embedded value amongst desert Aboriginal peoples (Puntu). It is disclosed as authority with nurturance, where older generations assume the responsibility to care for and look after younger people. Kanyirninpa also holds in balance two other key cultural patterns of desert life, autonomy and relatedness. These values are transmitted across generations where they provide desert society with identity, cohesion and strength. While kanyirninpa can be identified in the nurturance provided a child after birth, its presence and power is particularly disclosed at ceremonial time. Here, the meanings of the ancestral tjukurrpa (dreaming) are celebrated and renewed. Desert society is reproduced as the deeper, social and cosmic meanings around ngurra (land), walytja (family) and tjukurrpa are gathered, ritualised and re-enacted. The older generations of men and women enable this holding to occur. When boys (marnti) become men (wati) the manner of kanyirninpa changes. No longer do young men seek to be held by their mothers and female relations. Instead, they seek to be held by older men: brothers, uncles and other males. By holding them older men induct younger men into the social meanings and behaviours of desert, male adulthood. A generative and generational male praxis is disclosed.

In broad terms, this thesis has a two-fold aim. Firstly, it is a study of Aboriginal connectedness to country over a large area of the Australian Western Desert, sufficiently large that it embraces the main country of two recognised desert peoples, the Ngaanyatjarra and the Pintupi. This breadth of coverage enables me to undertake a comparison in respect to certain aspects of culture, social organisation and the relationship to land. There have previously been few detailed studies of these matters in the desert, and none in which two large scale groupings have been able to be compared in this way. Secondly, the thesis sets out to fill a 'gap' in the anthropological record, inasmuch as it provides the first detailed ethnography of the Ngaanyatjarra. Of the two peoples, these are the ones with whom I have predominantly worked, and about whom I have by far the greater amount of material. The aims of the thesis in regard to the Pintupi,who have already been the subject o fa major ethnographic work by another author, are more modest. Their connectedness to country is something that is of vital importance in the life world of the desert people, but it is a complex and elusive matter that has proven baffling to many scholars. The thesis reviews this earlier work, and also shows that while in recent decades there have been major improvements in the level of understanding, many questions still remain. This thesis grapples with some of these questions, in the process also problematising some areas that had previously been unexamined. A major focus of the thesis is on the tjukurrpa (Dreaming). While every account of the Aboriginal relationship to the land has necessarily addressed this subject, the coverage provided here is more broad-ranging and more detailed than most. I saw it as essential to address this phenomenon in all its aspects that I could think of. The Dreaming permeates desert life so thoroughly that it is hard to gain a clear analytical perspective on it without this exhaustive approach. For the same reason, there is also a tendency to assume that the Dreaming provides reasons, prescriptions or justifications for virtually every aspect of life, which I am able to show is not the case. This makes it possible to tackle the subject of the Dreaming on another level, considering questions not only about its achievements as a system of thought and practice, but also about its limitations. In other words, a more critical perspective becomes possible. The other major focus is on the forms of social organisation that are related to country. After the abandonment of earlier, inappropriate models of patrilineal descent organisation, the desert has come to be seen as an essentially 'structureless' place. I consider this proposition at length, and on the basis of my ethnographic evidence and analysis of the Dreaming, suggest that in fact two 'modes' of social organisation and relationship to country are to be found here, one having much more 'structure' than the other.

Thesis (Ph. D.)--University of Sydney, 2005.
Degree awarded 2005, thesis submitted 2004. Title from title screen (viewed July 3, 2009) Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy to the Dept. of Studies in Religion, Faculty of Arts. Includes bliographical references. Also available in print form.

The purpose of this essay has been to relate the Australian Aboriginal conceptions of place to three different theoretical perspectives on place, to find what is relevant in the Aboriginal context, and what is not. The aim has been to find the most useful theoretical approaches for further studies on the Australian Aboriginal conceptions of place. The investigation is a rendering of research and writings on Australian Aboriginal religion, a recording of general views on research on religion and space, a recounting of written material of three theoretical standpoints on place (the Insider standpoint, the Outsider Standpoint and the Meshwork standpoint), and a comparison of the research on the Aboriginal religion to the three different standpoints.  The results show that no single standpoint is gratifying for studies of the Aboriginal conceptions of place, but all three standpoints contribute in different ways. There are aspects from all three standpoints revealing the importance of place to the Aboriginal peoples.  The most useful theoretical approaches for studies on the Australian Aboriginal conceptions of place are: Place as a living entity, an ancestor and an extension of itself; place as movement, transformation and continuity; place as connection, existential orientation and the paramount focus, and; place as the very foundation of the entire religion.

The aim of this thesis is to interrogate, in the exegesis, and amplify, in the creative work, the conjunctions of literary magical realism and writing place. The exegesis is presented in four chapters that examine some aspects of magical realism, with the main focus on the Latin American strand that has as a main influence Alejo Carpentier’s concept of lo real maravilloso americano (the marvellous place of America). The accompanying novel, Siddon Rock, takes the concept of mythology- and place-centred magical realism and places it in the Australian landscape of a small country town just after world war 2. Each chapter of the exegesis is self-contained, and while they have several common references they do not follow one from the other but, rather, are four specific sites of discussion that commence with the historical world view of magical realism in chapter one. This chapter begins with tracking the term into literature from its conception by Franz Roh in 1925 as a descriptor of an emerging style of painting. It includes various definitions and arguments by writers and critics such as the Latin Americans Carpentier, Angel Flores and Luis Leal, all of whom had considerably different opinions as to what constituted the mode of magical realism, even before it became a world literature. Discussions by contemporary critics such as Lois Parkinson Zamora, Geoff Hancock, Amaryll Chanady, Jeanne Delbaere-Garant and others are also included. Chapter two discusses Canadian and Australian magical realism and its confluence with writing place. It examines the similarities and differences in each country’s history and sociological development since British settlement, and discusses why there are different attitudes to place and how the magical realist literature reflects these attitudes. Chapter three interrogates two novels by Australian Aboriginal writers through the concept of border-writing, and finds important similarities between border-writing, Mudrooroo’s concept of maban realism, and magical realism. Chapter four is a reflection on the influences that informed my writing of the creative project accompanying this exegesis which include re-visiting the place of my childhood, an experience that confirmed for me that stories in a relatively closed community weave together into the fabric of the place: the place exists because of the stories that can only exist in that place; an inter-dependency. The creative project is a novel set in a small inland town in Australia in 1950. Through the microcosm of the town the macrocosm of Australia is investigated, using interlinking stories that flow backwards to the beginning of the town and forwards with intimations of history that is to come. Two influences of change are central: Macha Connor who returns from war where she had taken the role of a soldier, and the immigrant woman Catalin whose arrival in the town affects the balance of the place. The novel is about memory and storytelling, and how the past and the present are indivisible. The narrative shape is that of a series of interlocking stories, some of which are well-known in the community, some are partly known, and some known only to one person. The stories are of various townspeople, from Sybil the butcher-baker woman, to Young George Aberline who loses his farm in a venture to harvest the salt lake. The stories come together at the Spring Ball when the immigrant woman Catalin plays a lament for the death of her mother on her cello—they weave together into a fabric that floats out of the town hall and covers the town. But while this is happening Catalin’s son Jos goes missing. The exegetical concerns about local mythologies, histories and stylistics informing a work of magical realism that is written in a particular place (e.g. the particulars of Latin America that underpin the writing of Márquez, or the strong sense of place of Canadian prairie towns in the work of Robert Kroetsch) are reflected in Siddon Rock with the incorporation of specifically Australian mythologies: e.g. the child lost in the bush, the child taken by dingoes, the ‘magical’ qualities of Aboriginal trackers who can read the land. In both the exegesis and the creative work the major impetus was of a broad spectrum of writerly investigation into magical realism and how it is specific to place.
Thesis (PhD Doctorate)
Doctor of Philosophy (PhD)
School of Arts
Full Text

A myth is a narrative. It is a structured, predominantly culture-specific and shared semantic system which is well known among the members of a particular community or society. Such narratives explain the origins of natural and social phenomena and the interrelationship among people, their deities, the universe, and their surrounding environment, thus enabling the members to understand each othen- and to cope with the unknown (Georges 1968:230; Maranda 1972:12-13).

The translation of traditional Western Desert iconography, narrative conventions and ceremonial aesthetics into the medium of acrylic painting, and onto the emergent plane of 'Aboriginal Art', has been among the great artistic achievements of the modern era. Despite the wealth of scholarship dedicated to this phenomenon, key aspects of it remain obscured in anthropological and art historical analysis. Based on fieldwork in the Australian Western Desert community of Balgo, this thesis develops an ethnographic account of how 'Country' is created through abstraction, kin-based processes of transmission, and the economics of art. Combining methodologies from anthropology and art history, this research seeks to develop an appreciation of Western Desert abstraction as a socio-cultural process. Abstraction is treated not merely as a particular kind of distilled formalism that resonates visually with 20th Century Western art historical and critical notions, but as a conceptual and creative process linked to a deconstruction of form and reconfiguration of meaning. In Balgo art these processes have resulted in the iconographic forms of the desert graphic system being superseded by other aesthetic features of that same system, particularly the practice of 'dotting'. This thesis analyses the development of dotting and other technical innovations into 'styles', and explores how these styles have in turn become an object of exchange and contestation within Balgo. The thesis also grapples with another significant, and related, gap in the anthropological literature: that of the economic contexts around acrylic painting. While Aboriginal art is widely acknowledged as part of an economic system, the forms on canvas or bark are rarely analysed as themselves implicated in, responsive to and expressive of fields of economic influence and motivation. In order to move beyond the dominant ritual-oriented interpretations of desert painting, this research frames painting as a form of Aboriginal labour. I treat art as work. Through quantitative and qualitative analysis of the work of art, the thesis affords new interpretations around the novel forms on canvas as crystallizations of human action, as objectifications of value and the social processes that create it. In uniting the aesthetic and economic aspects of my analysis, I build a portrait of the way style develops between people who share camps and other resources. I show how the innovations and abstractions pioneered by individuals become sedimented in culture as tradition through processes of intergenerational transmission. In this context, as objectifications of practices of sharing and co-residence, the forms of acrylic Country in Balgo art can be understood not as representational, but as Country itself. Country in the form of acrylic dots, styles, entire paintings, or the relationship between paintings, is an embodiment or objectification of Aboriginal value that can be exchanged both within Balgo (between kin) and without (through the market) in the creation of other kinds of value. Through localised kin-based transmission of painting style and redistribution of artistic income, Balgo artists have recalibrated acrylic 'Country' as the customary basis of their economic autonomy.

Abstract This chapter provides an overview of the volume, the research context for Australian languages, and a summary of the themes that emerge from the papers. Following a description of the five parts of the volume, it describes some of the editorial choices that led to the shaping of the volume’s contents and terminological conventions, including omitted topics. Furthermore. it provides some background to Aboriginal conceptions of language and land and how individuals relate both to Country and to Language, as well as to linguistic terminology typically used in discussing Australian languages. Some discussion is given of the ways that Indigenous authors have described their relationship to language and how language was placed on Country by Dreamtime culture heroes.

Abstract The island continent of Australia is immense-about as large as the contiguous forty-eight United States-and before the arrival of the Europeans, Australia supported an Aboriginal population up to 750,000 people, speaking well over two hundred distinct languages.1 In an area this large, it is not surprising that numerous ecological zones exist, from tropical to temperate forests and from prairies to deserts. Nonetheless, there was great similarity in the cultures of the native Australians.2 Of central importance, Australian Aborigines shared the same basic economic strategy: hunting and gathering. Of course, local variations existed in the types of food eaten and the specific techniques used to obtain their meals, but all of Australia's hunter-gatherers lived in bands and shared food.3 Australian Aborigines believed that they should follow a system of rules, "the Law," that originated from the parthuman, part-animal spiritual beings active during a Dreamtime period of creation.