The Boy with no organs

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. 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. And 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 magic tricks for the pigeons. I wonder if that birth I saw on the boat was metaphor, or omen?

The whales Mother, they fight not over land, they rule the waters. Those savages who hunt them, the whales must visit them in nightmares. They come ashore and devour villages. Great gray beasts of the sea thrashing their way through supermarkets and carparks, knocking down buildings. Man becomes wildlife on the highway.

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? 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.

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.

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.

Looking out the window of this highrise now it makes me realise how important it is to fight back aginst the Kings of the database. For they are only Kings as the administrator of the machine recognises their codes.

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 mum? 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. 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 womean killed by a lizard man. There, in the sacred precinct, in the 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 too ideal, even a pardox, 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?

And then the dreams of whales again, bumping against the boat, warbling like an underwater modem in a coral café. Bessie Smith was on the jukebox singing Trombone Cholly. The Great Ancestor of the ancient peoples, 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.

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 televisionlast night, he too seemed afraid.

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. God will protect my path.

All my love.

Your Son

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 2nd, 2006 at 08:49 pm and is filed under NEW TEXTS, NEWS. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.