The last time I spoke to my father, he said "good for you". I was 32, and it was only the second time I recall him giving me any kind of praise. The first had been at my wedding the previous year. "It's the only worthwhile thing Mulk's ever done," he'd said.'I was terrified of him for most of my childhood, the way his temper could change at any moment.'I have not spoken to my father for over a decade since.
In the same way we often return to the same thoughts or conversations, or painters repeatedly paint the same subject, or writers keep writing variations of the same story, there is an archaeology of desire. If you dig deep enough, through the ruins of every relationship before the others, you eventually get to the heart of the matter: the shifting quicksand on which that desire is founded – and founders.
Despite being a despot at home, my father could be generous and charming. I was always being told how wonderful he was, how accomplished he was, how respected he was. Especially by him, but also by his colleagues or staff, until they fell out. You would think I might remember – even treasure – those rare moments he wasn't cruel. But I cannot, because at any moment his mood could turn, and that brief respite would be swept away as if it had never happened.
When men aren’t taught of true female natures reality will slap them in the face hard. Hypergamy, dig deep on it fella’s, know them, free yourself.
Are they from the foreign white European-Anglo-Christian community of non-indigenous Australians as it obviously hasn't been labelled as an Indigenous Australian nor an ethnic Australian story? LOL!