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Cheeky Faerie 2012
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Prophetic Conspirators: Psychedelic Water 27>
The mess accumulates and energy swells as adventurous travelers strut toward the guarantee of a actually psychedelic knowledge – an indelible climax to the weekend’s hedonistic foreplay. By midday throngs currently amass in the painted streets and shaded byways of the far out little village of Nimbin. Saturday’s brilliantine noonday heat transforms the vibrant subtropical splendour of the verdant landscape into a viridian radiance of enervating humidity. The autumnal atmosphere verges back into the sweaty green steambath situations frequent throughout the final couple of years’ runaway greenhouse summers.
However untrammeled vigour still imbues the eagerly expectant assembly of freaks, straights, tourists and wannabe contenders with unabated intensity as they mingle and jostle for the year’s greatest buds, heads, colas and other significantly less combustible comestibles. A demi-multitude straggles into town along gravel tracks and bitumen arteries, undeterred by the heat of climate catastrophe or police state shenanigans.
The locals are completely outnumbered. Garbage bins overflow along the crowd-filled footpaths as thousands of camera wielding, fast food chomping visitors from despoiled lands of drear normality throng and mix, deal and fix, see and be seen beneath banners of the rainbow tribes and the all-seeing eyes of robotic surveillance cams. Spectrum-spanning painted faces stud the baseball capped crowd in chaotic arcs of rainbow colours, a well laundered shimmering sea of shiny black-and-blue-clad suburbanites.
Why do not you speak of what you’ve seen? The shaman muses as he rises from his seat to leave the Oasis. Is it just egotistic concerns over credibility – or a matter of not speaking of issues which do not want to be recognized?
Many of the visitors exist below a perennial stupor of paranoia in ‘normal’ workaday lives – fearing loss of station or job, marriage or kids, afraid of peer or parental disapproval and all the other snares and grasping adhesions of the noxious social glue that holds the hive in which they’re enmeshed together – even, especially, while walking and gawking down the main and practically only street of Globe Hippie Central. The option-minded but socially camouflaged throng doesn’t yet realise that they represent most of the world’s men and women – non-conformists at heart, who all live beneath the self-imposed harness of unnecessary fears, weighed down by the pointless guilt so keenly felt by accurate innocents deprived of normal human needs, and made to really feel inferior when they seek to satisfy their needs.
All yearn for release from the straightjacket asylum of a barely post-feudal civilisation run by lunatic handle freaks.
The ages-old witch and shaman ride within us all, suppressed or oppressed or free as a bird and all of us are hankering right after a flavour that leads to the taste of other dimensions, fresher views – zestier, much more riveting impressions of the sumptuous reality by means of which we otherwise drift like limbo-bound wraiths and automatons.
Most Mardi Grass revelers couldn’t give a damn about hypocritical, unjust laws and surely know they’re not damaged or damned, but blessed to be out and about in 1 of the brightest, freest instances and places in all the vast murky realms of human history.
Everyone’s right here to celebration and knowledge unseen sights and untried delights hippies, yuppie ‘aspirationals’, dreadlocked Rastas and dreaded ferals, priests, politicians, students, Tv crews and reporters and backpacking travellers from all round the globe, shopkeepers, soldiers, large and small old males and females, checkout chicks, lawyers, bureaucrats, proud parents carrying brightly bedecked newborn babes, emigrant Greek fishermen, Indian software program writers and contact centre voices, emo Goths – and anybody else not interested in becoming an active portion of the subtly feudal friendly fascist police surveillance state of impersonal corporate Big Brother clones and militant industrialists – and all are in search of the selfsame source of the philosophers, stoned. A broad cross-section is represented, as they say, and just about everyone’s smiling.
Fleecy clouds commence coalescing in the wide open sky’s more distant margins, blowing apart in this late Interglacial Age’s inexorably rising winds. The Rainbow Area is multiply blessed with rich soil and Sun, sea breezes and rain, luxuriantly lush and deliriously green even at the finish of a historic nationwide mother of all droughts, and for the 1st time the annual parade will be cost-free of the double-edged benison of rain.
A very good year for curing the mull, if you look on the vibrant side… Could be a very good vintage… The shamanic prince’s thoughts flit hither and yon whilst he tends to make a sine wave beeline for the fantastic Strangler Fig. The Tree of Life beckons, arching across the marketplace ground’s outside stage as he strides by way of streams of fossicking punters hovering round myriad stalls and jewellery-strewn blankets. The future’s so vibrant we’ll have to put on shades…
He reaches the Chai Tent and gratefully slides into a mismatched litter of comfy cushions on the hempen expanse of canvas flooring. Every and every Mardi Grass, the space beneath the industry site’s grand old fig is reserved for the Chai Tent, right beside the covered stage. The chai’s constantly good – if you wait for it to correctly brew – gingery and purifying for the partied-out and jaded throng recovering from the pleasant excesses of Friday night.
Following taking a breath Ram’yana rises to inspect a tasty array of homemade organic cakes although John ladles some brew into a varied menagerie of ceramic cups. Muzza and John are typical fixtures at most option events, their friendly bearded familiar faces ever beaming behind fluttering prayer flags and political messages. They aid their most current batch of eager helpers mix chai, coffee, teas and munchies beneath the generously shady green canopies of tree and marquee.
These days only half the meals vendors in the ‘alternative’ township spend any consideration to actual human or environmental overall health, beyond ubiquitous legal needs of sanitation, hygiene and the like. Most of what they sell to paying shoppers is toxic crap, just like the stuff most human folk will eat ahead of, throughout or right after reading these words.
But in Nimbin the other half are nonetheless wonderfully fastidious and most neighborhood produce is relatively organic. It’s been decades because aerial spraying of Agent Orange was widespread in these parts – in a saleable form with a slightly diverse brand name, of course, sprayed straight into the waterways and everywhere else when the hippies first arrived a single far more lasting legacy of war’s fine record of ongoing ‘technological advancement’.
In Vietnam the peasants had no thought what was happening to them, but in Oz and other ‘advanced’ nations they sprayed tetragenic toxic herbicides on their own cropland, water, animals and farming households and newcomer hippies alike. Nonetheless do. Even in the ‘developed world’, the peasants are too ignorant or naive to realise that poison is poison is poison, and that all the items of Huge Pharma and Huge Oil and Huge Brother are noxious, toxic, persistent carcinogens and/or other agents of insidious slow death. Speed kills. So does strychnine, arsenic, Agent Orange, Roundup and irradiated meals. So do preservatives, colourings, bleaches, flavours, microwave radiation and most of the other shit floating around in human bloodstreams in the early Third Millennium.
And individuals wonder why they really feel stoned all the time, why so a lot of promising lives end so quickly.
It is worth remembering, even if it is unbelievable to most – three quarters of every little thing you eat, drink, breathe, touch, paint on your self or wear is toxic, carcinogenic and debilitating. In a planet where you rely on other folks alternatively of nature, all the crap you acquire is made for making money, not for your health. As any person toxic compound combines with all the other stuff in a ‘modern’ human body in ever far more chaotic synergy, it’s no surprise nearly everyone in the contemporary world is walking wounded, half asleep, barely right here – role-playing the parts of automata in an industrial nightmare alternatively of becoming here now. Not to mention living ridiculously short, painful lives, in continuous fear of the puzzling rebellion of the unknown, unstudied territories of their own bodies and minds.
The only way out is in, to create an inner location of peace unaffected by the turmoil, the inner sanctuary from which all imagination and creativity and immunity spring – and OUT, moving far away from the worst crap, stuff and nonsense of feudal capitalism, to at least attempt a diverse life in the final remnants of a healthier world. To bring every ‘lost’ dream all the way back from the final seed-source heartlands that still survive, and develop new lives that hold these heartlands sacred and inviolate. To develop a healthy world with a entire glowing soul. That’s the dream that most pursue or seek or view comprehensive on the busy streets of Nimbin.
Here in the Rainbow Region a generation of brave beings has largely succeeded in their try to adjust the globe within their horizon. The Nimbin Mardi Grass is barely a tenth of a greater green iceberg lurking just out of sight of The Grey Man and his equally hideous hidebound mate, the all-consuming Purchasing Bitch. Option notions have evolved into a hidden but subtly influential nation nestled inside the recovering rainforest canopy. Its denizens have no need to officially secede from the bigger notional paradigm of Oz – absolutely nothing secedes like good results.
The Prince of Centraxis permits a multitude of voices wash more than him via the amplified reggae horn section while Celtic harpists perform the crowd from the psychedelic stage “We all have the Buddha and the Troll within”, a bearded man in saffron is saying to a group of escaped students beneath the hemp tarpaulin. “Which do you favor to give rein, and enable to reign through you?”
A high-pitched squeak obtrudes from a dozen paces distant “Have you truly looked at the shots of the twin towers exploding prior to they fall? Come on, it is a crock of shit…”
“He’s promoting ounces for a hundred but we have to be quick, it is not seedy…”
“Did you see these 3 girls doing it collectively at the doof?”
“Draw me a mud map and I can find it. Can we camp there, do y’reckon?”
“…working on a flow kind whereby the superfine patterning embossed, as it have been, on the metal substrate energises the water flowing across it…”
“What sort of metal?”
“…nuclear dump site for the rest of the globe simply because that’s the only way we can have nuclear energy plants and vice versa…”
“…but also draws slight but measurable and eventually usable power from the interaction…”
“…it’s all a small unclear if you ask me…”
“It’s all about money – we’ll make a motza from the storage fees – pay off the national debt…”
“You guys don’t keep in mind, do you?”
“I’m going to hear that bloke from Canadia speak – you know, the one who got the healthcare exemption that says he can smoke?”
“I and eye don’ have t’worry, bud. Jah Rastafarii!”
“You imply it? How does that function?”
“You noticed Narla? I lost ’er final night at the dance…”
“You imply your tiny girl?”
“Nah – her mum. Here – try some o’ this…”
“You know they had to let Rusty off all the charges?”
“Why? Simply because he was picked up by that flying saucer?”
“…the real question is, is scratching an itch or a willed act?”
“O’ course it is! Yer just don’ notice the immediate that it requires f’ yer to choose to do it.” It is all also quickly unless yer pay attention…”
A accurate story
By R. Ayana
Continues @ centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/prophetic-conspirators-… BE Aware – THIS Hyperlink LEADS TO IMPLICATE & XPLICIT Concepts & Pictures!
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