Dear Mother

I have finally arrived! The coastline here so different I can hardly describe. The two week trip became four. There were storms, a mutiny, a birth, near starvation and a whale almost capsized us. The Captain reminding constantly that we may be captured and locked in a cage in the Australian desert, which is very unforgiving. Many tourists die every year. In the newspapers here they call us 'boat people', as though we would have chosen this method of transport should there have been an aero plane available. They assume we are uneducated, which is amusing, and possible to use to ones advantage. It is unusual, from an anthropological point of view, as humans have always been a migratory animal, to try and stifle this very behaviour which defines them. One can see clearly we are fighting a ideological war. The Masters, as they present themselves, can be seen to encourage the ulceration of the cities. Lock down the borders, take blood from babies, silently celebrate social decay while formulating social policies to defy it.

Several friends made on the boat, familiar faces from the cafes back home, and I, now refer to this new century as the techno-feudal age. We are only just beginning to understand its implications Mother, what those philosophers are saying about the body with no organs. Kings with their machines controlling the paupers. It's like exposing the gimmick see, the art of misrepresentation for so long essential to the survival of man. The cities rose and the gangs made themselves look respectable, and they modified their language to sway the minds of the masses, and they invented democracy and they convinced everyone that it be superior; it's the same with Liberty, build a cage, put a man in there, those outside believe themselves to be free'� interesting huh. The streets here are crowded with dark magicians doing bad tricks for the pigeons. I wonder if that birth I saw on the boat was metaphor, or omen? The shore like a broken tiara on the dance floor, our sea legs keeping us dancing, up the beach and into bush land we swayed'�

Anyway, please forgive my fanaticism, I have seen some horrendous things these past few weeks. How are you? I trust all is running with precision as usual on the farm? The sick lamb, did she pull through? I found her misery to be haunting me, not a good thing to happen just as I set off on a perilous sea. Turns out getting here was the easy bit, though an elderly man who had found Jesus starved to death in the third week. Another experience, out in the ocean in the still of night, a jazz refrain came to us from across the water, followed, through the fog, or low cloud, who can tell out there, by the horn of a cruise liner which gave us a fright. That night, I could smell your cooking with the waves; hear you laughing by the fire. It is the memory of our life before, all of us together; this is why I am fighting with such conviction.


There are three of us who have remained undetected, the others captured on the beach. Go to the internet café when you receive this letter and have a look at this map http://www.immi.gov.au/detention/detention_centres.pdf the place called Woomera (though it looks close to the coast it's not) where they have the thirteen others, incidentally, is where they have my baby Brother. Remember, when I came here legally, and I hugged him at the gate, and then when I went to renew his papers, they looked at their screens, scratched their heads and said, 'Sorry, but your Brother does not exist'. I have met others now, infected with this electronic disease. The them in the database dictates the experience, and the fate, of the person in the world. This is the real reason we are feared. We do not exist in the memory bank of their machines. By default we also have immaculate credit records.

So I am in a safe house in Melbourne. We head inland Tuesday afternoon. I have a mate who earns excellent money working in a call centre selling mobile telephones. He has been collecting customers' credit card numbers for 9 months now. Last week we ordered 50,000 dollars worth of equipment using the credentials of a fake camping store. It arrived via express delivery late on Saturday afternoon. We are prepared now to go and pick up the rental truck from the airport in which we shall drive inland to the city of Adelaide. There we will rendezvous with Gustav and the others who made it across late last year. Three of his men were taken by sharks, his own legs mauled and scarred. He has quite a serious limp these days, is no longer practicing his martial arts. In my opinion this has made him rather bitter. When he laughs he has this twisted look in his eyes, he is vandalising his own heart, our Brother Gustav. Melbourne is a beautiful city, you will love it!

Now for the good news Mother. I have got you a passport. Yes, that's why I had to take your photograph against that ugly yellow wall. We have a friend who works in the Government office that makes the documents. He has so far made a dozen for his friends, mailed them and they entered as citizens, no questions. My mate who works for the telephone company is one of them. He pays his taxes, rents a nice apartment from which I am writing this.

This simplicity, no questions asked when you have the correct documents is certainly to the incrementalists advantage. It won't be so simple dear Mother, when they start to implant people with the necessary credentials.

Looking out the window of this highrise now it makes me realise how important it is to fight back agianst the Kings of the database. For they are only Kings as the administrator of the machine recognises their codes. I saw a show on television, a man named Eddie Murphy was singing a tune that went ' 'you got no icecream, your dads on welfare' and before long I could have sworn he said ' your body with no organs, it's got no credit, you cant get welfare, your dreams are shattered.' I was so depressed I went and drank the money I got from selling my compass. The woman singing in the bar had a voice like yours Mother, I always said you could be a singer.

Now and again a pigeon slams into the window up here on the 19th floor.

Recently, to familiarise myself with the outback, I took a week long trip to The Rock. On the journey I read several books on the mythology of the people. You understand mythology don't you Mother? It's the ancestral story, like your favorite of Leda and the Swan. I searched and found a cave I read about, in which the men cut their veins and spray blood onto the walls. I felt overwhelmed, the spirit of the place made me feel welcome. This land accepts me, despite the Department of Immigration. I have conversed with the serpents. And yes, I think I understand now. Something in the desert that night gripped my heart with dread. I had wandered from my tent, away from the fire and the guitar music of the others. Standing out there in the dark, on some of the most ancient land on earth, on a ledge, a long broken length of rock, which the guidebook said was the legs of a Kunia woman killed by a lizard man. There, in the sacred precinct, in a ritual playground, my plans of busting little brother out of Woomera seemed a little grand. To them he is Number 31, he can't speak the language, they don't understand his name. They deported me before I could explain. 'Are there any Shamans left out here'� I screamed into the night, 'to help me pray, that god may explain a way for me to help him to escape?'�. Is it such an extreme ideal, even a paradox, to believe that Earthlings should be considered citizens of the world, instead of fighting over what bits of dirt there are that have arisen from the sea? But then, we would fight to defend our farm wouldn't we Mother, it belongs to us.

And then the dreams of whales again, bumping against the boat, warbling like an underwater modem in a coral café, some eerie sax on the jukebox. The Great Ancestor of the ancient people, whose lovemaking is the rain and the lightning, rose from the rockpools and sniffed languidly at the foreskins of all the sleeping boys. I awoke in a sweat, understanding has been given me in this sacred land. The soul is the ancestral animals, the body their knowledge. We are all like Jonah in the whale, except we a tourists and this is a bus.

When we returned to the city we discovered that one of our team had been killed under an engine block while modifying a truck at his workplace, a garage. I have always been a little uncertain as to what those men have in mind after they help me bust little brother out of Woomera. There are stories in the newspaper about refugees sewing their lips shut to protest the conditions. On the streets the people seem bewildered, like they don't know what to do about the situation. I saw an American punk rocker on the television last night, he too seemed afraid. The Prime Minister here has control of the senate. I want to visit the parliament, got lost in the gardens. I wonder when this Reichstag will burn and the military will take control? No longer will only the soveriegn people suffer. There are artists in the coffee houses discussing the implications of these changes. I even met a television chef who was warned about his politics. Protest, though only vocal, has become a threat. Somehow they have convinced the people here that it is a privledge to pay taxes, that removing civil safeguards, and dismantling the unions will bring them benefits. It is mesmerism, a positive spin, a womans intimates on display at the supermarket, soon all will be convinced that the body is common property.

Well Mother, I know how you disapprove of my need to act upon my beliefs. Possibly this letter will put you on edge. But trust me, I will find your son, my brother. We will walk on the beach again. You will join us soon. Keep your eye on the post box, that passport will be arriving. Bring only the necessary things. Remove the photograph of Father from the old frame, it is too large and fragile to make the plane trip. Probably cost you an arm and a leg in excess baggage. You know how important that photograph is to me.

For now, I am safe. The Lord will protect my path.

All my love.

Your Son

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