A hot topic in the Auz media at the moment centers on a cult called “The Family” led by a messianic madwoman, Anned Hamilton-Byrne: a book has been published by Chris Johnson and Rosie Jones and a documentary film by Rosie Jones is doing the rounds in the cinemas, and some in Auz are agog over the horror of it all. It’s a peculiarly Melbourne story, the city I grew up in, coming from the late ‘Sixties and early ‘Seventies, a cult which nearly mind-fucked me, except I had the fortitude to escape.
This response is typical of what I’ve had to suffer over the years. A life of torture, unable to hold down a job or even rent a room, toughing it out with the heterosexual anarchist scene, the rock’n’roll mosh-pits, the skinhead-gang attacks, the rednecks spitting in my face, all because I couldn’t hide my gayness even if I wanted to, (and I did let everyone know, "I'm gay, so what?) and then that cock told me I was never “out.”
|Hamilton-Byrne Playing the Harp.|
The cult leader was a wise shaman type, like a curandera from old Mexico, guiding patients through healing rituals using psylocibin mushrooms, or that's what Hamilton-Byrne, the high priestess, professed. In reality she was more like the CIA using the drug in mind-control programs, only her program was to eventually breed me with one of her cult-members and then snatch the child.
|Newhaven Clinic, Kew|
He then booked me into the clinic for the psychedelic therapy, apparently the hospital had a connection with Sandoz laboratories in Switzerland, and ten sessions over a period of three months should do the trick, make me an upright citizen, all paid for by my Health Insurance.
|Hamilton-Byrne with Eyes that " Looked Through You."|
She sat by my bed and tried to mesmerize me with admonishments to vomit it all up, all the times I’d been raped, tortured, murdered, and in turn all the murders I'd committed, the blood-letting, the disembowling, in all my past lives, and I retched for her benefit, my body twisted and misshapen, but I still didn’t become the pliable fool. Finally she left me to be molded into her clay Golem another day and I found myself flying up past the levels of Hell, up into many heavens, back through the history of human evolution, to a primordial time when as human-animals still in tune with nature we danced in the garden to the ecstatic song of Pan.
|Assange with Children of the Family.|
Did “The Family” and their drug-induced mind-meltdown ruin my life? I’ve certainly been dysfunctional ever since, with bi-polar swings, committing stupid, compulsive stunts and inappropriate Tourette's-like expletives yelled at the wrong time. It set me on the road as a transient bum and bad-arse anarchist, I went on to wander India for 4 years after the Newhaven experience, taking acid on the beaches of Goa from ’72 onward to try to get on top of the bummers, free myself from the Christian duality of Heavenly Father and Hellfire Satan, to dance ecstatic and abandoned, control my life’s path and fuck off any stand-over merchant or lynch-mob that accosted me.
For 4 years in India of the '70s I met every Big Baba going, Tatwalla Baba, Maste Ram Baba, Prabhupad of Hari Krishna fame, Rajneesh (Osho), Muktananda, Satchitananda of Woodstock fame, even the magician Satya Sai Baba, but I resisted being overly-impressed by any of them, never joining the club and dressing in orange like a swami, nor giving up my gayness.
When I crash-landed in Sydney I was a ‘78er, taking on the cops as we marched up Oxford Street and onto Kings Cross to start the famous LGBQIT Mardi Gras parade that comes up again every March. I lived in Pyrmont Squats for 12 years and fought off innumerable dark forces. I’ve taken on corrupt cops, cruel screws, power-mongering pollies and jaundiced junkies. I’ve survived the ghetto of Northcott Housing Estate for 28 years where schizos and ICE addicts run amok. And I've returned to India for the last twenty years and walked every jungle path and city back-alley and surfed it like a swashbuckling pirate.
If Anne Hamilton-Byrne and her “Family” couldn’t diminish me, devour me, detain me, NOTHING could. Her cult’s motto was “Unseen, Unheard, Unknown.” That’s not my bullshit. Though I must admit, old age is now causing me to feel somewhat wobbly, for people continue to be cruel, as my next few stories will attest. I’ve got a bad reputation across this back-stabbing, pushy, shit-heap climbing city, for opening my mouth and giving dicks my reality checks, all because I don’t like people wiping their feet on me like I’m a door mat, even though I do say “Welcome”.