Articles
WAM BAM.
April 2022
Visiting the new WA Museum in October last, I was surprised by the flurry of flunkys cockroaching around.
The building is of that brutalist design which is the mark of many recent vomitous buildings in Western Australia and bears the same relationship to spiritually uplifting architecture as does sodomite fancy to heterosexual love.
The exhibits, without rational planning, are higgledy piggledy, or more precisely like a pig sty of dead cultural leftovers without any connectivity for anyone whose interest rises above the evanescent pages of twatter and faecesbook.
Since a fleeting visit some months ago the minerals exhibit has had a partial relabelling, so someone must have finally realised that 'pickabox' is not very educational and utterly irrational. There is an immense distance to go from the current choose a colour/shape and find out what it is, to a display that is both mentally stimulating and aesthetically attractive. Just like in the gallery of irrelevancies juxtaposed in an insoluble snakes and ladders puzzle the part time conceptualists and full time sodomites have no idea who or what is on the other side of the glory hole.
One notes that, appropriately, the Hoax of the Twentieth Century gets several windows of its own among the all-pervading stench of local tribalism. The glorification of 50,000 years of devolution to give social misfits and ring-ins an antipodean sense of 'we wuz kangs' has little attraction for the rest of us.
We had all hoped that the new WAM might be a priceless ornament to both our history and culture. Few realised that underneath the government hype the core was as rotten as it could ever be.
Just as the destructive rampage of the 'Dr' D&C through the National Museum and other once high cultural centres ended in tears, of rage, this abomination will go the same way. In the meantime the potential intellectual growth and enjoyment of thousands of children will be thwarted. Hopefully some of those will wake from the wokes imposed upon them and take a sword and noose to the fleeing destructionists.
The Museum had/has immense collections of interest which have been secreted away. Or have they been destroyed as politically unsuitable, like the hundreds of thousands of rare books that once adorned the State Library? The mineral displays are ridiculous for a state which owes its wealth to its mineral resources. Those displays of ~70 years ago educated and lifted me to greater things. What has happened to the world class antique arms collections? What a drawcard they would be. I covered some of these problems in The Ontology of Book Burning.
We need answers to these questions. We need a stocktake to discover where the collections have gone and a public enquiry into the burying and stealing of our patrimony. Could the WAM survive a stocktake by independent auditors? In preparation they have been rewriting the catalogues via digitisation so that all will look clean.
Life is not long enough to waste more than a quick spin to receive an unwanted visual emetic that is the WAM displays. This is cultural pornography and as it targets children, it is actually culturally paedophilic to its core. I give the internal 'structure' about 12 months before its collapse, as citizens awake to the waste of hard earned dollars and the poison that it unleashes on the defenceless schoolchildren that are herded through this Molochian horror, on the way to the immolation of their capacity to think and derive knowledge useful to their future.
The current government of culturally ignorant parvenus will bitterly regret allowing the pretentious scum of the new weaponised pseudo-social 'sciences' to control the agenda and waste near billions of the citizen's assets in their sick abusive propaganda exercise. Generosity (with the taxpayers $) towards those southland gypsies, who like their relations, have no interest in principles, only the principal; and it never stops.
I delayed publishing this critique while I corresponded with the Museum Director, or more correctly, the CEO. Responsible Directors with appropriate training in science and administration have not been seen in the WAM for many years.
Many of our readers have queried as to why our books are not on sale in the WAM toyshop as they were in the earlier State Library Bookshop. Possibly under the rubric of saving the shekels for the building programme, all our books were removed from all WA Museum outlets in WA. That in Kalgoorlie had once flourished. A long and somewhat acrimonious tit for tat led nowhere. The intensity of pissy fits in the WAM indicate that there is more than mere economics to our boycott and that a psychosexual imbalance corrodes their world view. It appears that somewhere in that cannibal food chain is a cabal of creatures whose company I would like to both avoid, but see, at a distance, impaled on a stake. That would satisfy forever their anal instincts.
Recently we published a book by an ex WAM staff member. He was told that if the book had been published by anyone other than Hesperian they would have stocked it. When the CEO was informed of this he 'lost his cool.' He objects to my use of the term 'boycott', but he just smells it differently. Attempts to get to the real reasons behind the boycott have not succeeded. Perhaps my earlier writings have impacted on the sorry set of vicious and vocal degenerates that seem to emerge everywhere lately. Suffice to say, again, that something is very rotten in the WA Museum and its parent body, the Arts Department.
The government agenda is that of a flowering of the 'long march through the institutions' and placing the wokes and wackos into positions of power which cannot be removed except by extensive cauterisation. This sickness of Mc$hit has corrupted the entire Western world and the smell of burning flesh in the chastisements to come will be all pervading.
The following essay, creative writing, but not fantasy, reveals the sickness and suggests a cause. Germs rarely affect a healthy organism. With un-healthy there is only death, and that is incurable.
A Dead Man's Land on the Highway of Death.
By Peter the Painter.
September 2021.
The cultural and architectural chimera that is the new WA Museum – Boola Bardip – Place of Lies – is a place cursed for both whites and blacks.
Built on a hill overshadowing the city, on top of the old Perth Gaol and its gallows where dozens of men, and women, were executed between 1851 and 1887, it is also where some of the aboriginal dead were dumped instead of being carted to the East Perth Cemetery.
Cursed now for the white man as it is a direct cultural attack on those who built the nation.
Cursed twice as it is the place of death and non-sacralised burial of ancient bulya men.
Thrice cursed as a haunting place for the teratophiliac degenerates who planned, designed and built such an 'abomination of desolation.'
I forecast, or is it a prediction, that it will be devoid of patrons by the end of the year, 2022. Once the Old Museum invigorated by multiple visits. Now one visit is enough the last a lifetime, of regret, at having wasted a precious hour.
Our dictatorial governments of ignorant upstarts think that $ and diktats alone can run a nation.
But they have destroyed the cohesiveness of our culture, throwing us all to the dingos on the death path.
When bones were found during the excavations for the foundations they were quickly and quietly spirited away, never to be seen or discussed again.
When, in 2021, answers were demanded from both the state pathologist and the coroner, the researcher was told that it was none of his business.
This, protecting an institution which has secreted the skull of Pigeon, a vicious cannibal killer who was bulleted in 1897. A cult heroicising this foul creature has infested the lower levels of the anthropology and land rights bowel movements. It is identical to that of Yagan, another killer & cannibal who met his bullet long ago.
The cover up is on – the bones were human and aboriginal.
The Museum, despite all the crowing and promotions, is built on the Bones of Dead Men.
My ancestors, both white and black, would look with distaste upon the thrice cursed hill of death, our colonial Golgotha.
My white convict ancestors would have known some of those whites hung to death there.
My black ancestress was related by blood to natives hung on the bloody gallows.
The gallows on the hill overlooked the city centre, where is the omphalos of our city, directly down to the river, along a highway of death, our own El Camino de la Muerte (Don Quixote).
All traditional cultures have a knowledge of spirituality, of spirits good and bad, and despite the trappings of modernity they are still there, rumbling away beneath the surface like the fires of dormant volcanoes.
We can only measure the baleful aspects of these influences as a whole, individually they can be dismissed, but the effects of accumulation, never.
The Chinese call their understanding of this, feng shui. Paradoxically we are more familiar with this concept than we are of the almost lost divinatory arts of our own Celtic ancestors and that of the little studied aboriginal boolya and kaidatcha men.
These emanations curse the activities and well-being of all who venture to live or work where they are in force.
The death spirits flow directly downhill along Beaufort and Barrack Streets where they are bottled up in that canyon of death and ricochet among the buildings down to Barrack Square on the river.
They also flow westwards along James and Francis Street to encompass the double-hexagoned Art Gallery of poisonous 'degenerate art' and the State Library, which specialises in burning books, and then to the coven of brothels, opium dens, gambling and clip joints that made up Northbridge. Now a scene of tribal feuding and maiming. Yagan Square, another nomenclatural fetish, has collapsed as a harbinger of all associated with the imposition of cannibal culture. Right among this was the shop of the Chinese merchant whose daughter was horribly murdered in 1926 and dumped in the river. Northbridge has always been a hell-hole of vice and death. Nothing really changes, just that we do not see the hidden history or sense the planned puerility of a sick society.
Directly opposite the Old Gaol/Museum is a 'glory hole' of the denizens of Sodom and all that entails. Several years ago the Museum accepted, with some alacrity, as a 'valuable cultural object', an old filth stained toilet door. It had a hole at a 'convenient height' through which deviants could entertain each other anonymously. When the Museum opened they positioned an isolated solitary door, with a large hole in the middle, in the centre of the 5 metre wide Beaufort Street entrance, conveniently located directly opposite the glory hole, as a hidden sign of community between the two cesspools. The connection of degeneracy and the Museum is marked. Just a few years ago the pink and green neon signs on the Beaufort street wall openly promoted such. Given the intense direct relationship of faggotism with paedophilia it would be most unwise for parents to let their children freely wander around the Museum buildings and grounds.
Next there was the Canterbury Court carpark, an architectural eyesore of rotting concrete, now demolished and replaced with the equally financially disastrous Northbridge Centre collapsed into another car park. These are opposite the old Police Courts and cells where generations of unfortunates were initiated into the realities of the system before final incarceration at Fremantle Gaol or Rottnest.
Over the rail bridge on the east is the proto-'Godzilla' of Western Power. In Barrack Street, near the corner, is the hotel destroyed by the local mafia, now with a rebuilt facade disguising that cultural crime.
Next the site on the SW corner of Murray street of the old State Taxation bank that was robbed of £11,000 in about 1962, by a rising star of political and underworld crime, Ray O'Connor, best friend of 'Daphne' Court, gunman and military intelligence operator of the nearby Beehive Tearooms, and later brothel operator, disgraced former Premier of WA, and a suspect in the murder of fellow whoremongerer Shirley Finn.
All along here seedy untenanted shops exist in an economic shadow with little of the wealth of the lateral byways sticking to them. Such places, abandoned by the locals, become the habitat of dozens of culturally alien eating places, existing only by selling to each other.
On the next corner is the convict built Town Hall, now merely a remnant figurehead of our cohesiveness, almost abandoned. No life exists there. Opposite, the underground Alhambra Bar, remembered only for the unfortunate death on the stairs of one of our foremost song men, the poet 'Crosscut' Wilson.
Next the site of the old R & I bank, creator of the closest got by this state to economic sovereignty, killed off by a creature of Canberra operating for alien financial interests.
Outside this a bronze plaque marks the spot where the city was proclaimed by the ritual execution of a gum tree, the harbinger of the destruction to follow.
Then the old Treasury, now whored out at high prices to international interests. On this corner is the hidden & unrecognized omphalous of the City.
Directly over the Terrace stands a bronze statue of Alexander Forrest, a smart financial operator, and if one carefully examines the gun over his shoulder the metaphysical notches indicate the number of natives shot on his expeditions.
The highway then encompasses the Perth City Council offices, headquarters of our own home grown mafia and destroyers of life in the city. Also once, and possibly now, the Pentagon of the South, operating the North West Cape electronic antennas controlling the nuclear submarines patrolling the oceans with atomic death. Hidden in the nearby jungle is the Supreme Court where for many life was destroyed by costumed cabalists. Opposite, the great greenness has been replaced by the sterile establishment of the black castles of Elizabeth Quay, where few dare to traverse their courts.
The Bell Tower, a southern neo-Gothic edifice, with reflections of Gaudi, whose great bells are silenced by the overwhelming encroachment, now appears as a sad and lonely monument, like a long meaningless menhir of old Europe.
The end of the Canyon is the development of Barrack Square, fingering into the river, where life is one disaster after another for the hoodwinked tenants.
Here the spirits are finally thwarted from their attempts to escape down river to fly to their final resting place of Kurannup, and so echo back, shattering any possible peace and stability on the Highway of Death.
Museums Make an Exhibition of Themselves - Quadrant Online.
https://quadrant.org.au/opinion/education/2024/02/museums-make-an-exhibition-of-themselves/