“How are you enjoying Oz?” the shaman asked the intrepid visitors. Cheers and laughter erupted from the sparking bonfire on the other side of the party-strewn paddock, where flittering gouts of flaming starlets poured up to greet the Milky Way.
“It great,” Zen beamed through the smaller campfire. “We want to live here, but our visa run out soon.” He turned to his partner Shi, who was briskly nodding her agreement. The Japanese couple was obviously enjoying this taste of tribal tepee life in the hippified Rainbow Region of Oz, yet they’d shifted an arm’s length apart amid the small circle of newfound friends. Despite their recent exposure to naked hippies and public lovemaking, the shaman surmised the couple’s rigidified Nipponese upbringing still ensured they betrayed no overt signs of physical affection.
“You can always come back, bud,” Cameron assured him.
Zen balanced Shi’s hand on his knee. “I want to. We want to.”
“You’ve had no trouble here?” asked Cameron. The young travelers looked to one another before Shi answered for them both; “No, not trouble. Just some old people swear at us in Queensland.” She shrugged her slight shoulders while flying foxes screeched through the treetops.
“You may encounter that with many older people here, particularly in Queensland – because of World War Two. You know what I’m talking about?” Ram felt like Basil Fawlty attempting to be diplomatic as the thought ‘Don’t mention the war’ flitted through his bedazzled noggin. The visitors glanced at each other again before Zen nodded. “Yes, we hear of it,” he affirmed.
“Well… older Queenslanders and other people in the north of Oz will never forget that the rest of the country was willing to hand them over to Japan if New Guinea fell.”
“Everything north of Brisbane,” Cameron agreed. “And – well, no offence, but there were some hideous atrocities committed in that war and a lot of older people don’t forget that, either.”
Zen tilted his head to one side. “Really?”
“There certainly were,” the shaman prince carefully enunciated each word through the flickering firelight. “Almost a lifetime ago now. There is a new generation in Japan that has been told nothing of it – and isn’t responsible for any of it. We certainly do not hold it against you. But the generations before us will never forget and many will never forgive – and the fact that nothing is taught about it in Japan is a real concern to much of the world.”
“That’s right,” Cameron agreed. “Most of my older relatives hate Japan to this day. We grew up hearing horror stories about guys being carved up and tortured from my uncle. He was in the Pacific…”
“You have to remember,” Ram said with a glance to Cameron, “propaganda was at least as bad on all sides as it is today. Even worse in wartime, of course. The history we read and were taught isn’t very accurate either – it was written by the victors, after all...”
“Always is,” concurred Cameron.
“…There were atrocities on all sides – though the ruling caste of the Japanese government considered themselves superior to all other races, just like the Nazis. They treated everyone else just as badly as the S.S. did the Jews and Gypsies.
“Japan created a slaughterhouse all around them before Hiroshima was bombed,” Ram continued, holding Cameron’s firelit gaze. “But you know, they were actually forced into the war.”
“They were? I’ve heard that, but what do you mean? What about Pearl Harbour?” Cameron’s interest flared with the firelight.
“The West cut off their oil supplies and just about everything else they needed to make themselves self-sufficient in a colonial world. The Japanese elite realised they could take the Western Pacific only if they could destroy the US military there in just six months – by wiping out its Pacific fleet in one stroke. Their plan actually unraveled right at the beginning at Pearl Harbour, when some of their targets escaped; but it’s all a long story, like the Opium Wars…”
“Ah,” Zen nodded. Shi was obviously struggling to keep up with the conversation and he translated in a rapid burst of Japanese. “This very difficult, but interesting for us,” she said as comprehension dawned on her pretty face.
“Mind you,” Ram continued, “Japan took Manchuria – though they may have had ancestral links to the place - and the shocking war against China was fought in a despicable manner. Japan hadn’t signed the Geneva Convention…”
“No…” Zen asked the question as a statement.
“No,” Cameron averred.
“You don’t mind discussing this?” the Prince belatedly asked the young couple.
“No, we not mind,” Zen sayid for them both. “We want to know.”
“Well… you know that Japan bombed the city of Darwin, in the north of this country? Destroyed it completely?” Cameron asked. The visitors shook their heads in confusion. “Bombed many, many times. Or that midget submarines attacked Sydney Harbour?” The visitors were nonplussed.
“No…” Shi breathes. “We not know…”
“It cuts both ways,” Ram observed. “Australians weren’t told the truth about Darwin either, thanks to the excuse of wartime censorship. And we know so little about Nippon or its history - and everything we think we know is twisted out of true by the media, intelligence agencies and politicians.” Watching the Japanese couple feel the pressure of the past, bowing their heads toward the fire and frowning in consternation, he decided to change the subject; “You’ve had no trouble with young people here?”
“No,” Shi smiled, looking up from the flames. “Mostly it’s great.”
She turned to watch Mandy emerge from the night and pull a deckchair up by the fire. Ram’yana was aware that the feral had been silently observing the conversation while twirling her blond dreadlocks in the shadows. He watched her watching the Japanese. She and her beau were slowly constructing their place in the Sun on the Star Earth tribal land, after their shady love shack mysteriously burned down a few weeks before the festival.
“When you come back from Japan you’d better arrange to bring some more of those young hippies with you,” Cameron laughed. “Save them by bringing them here to this hippy preserve.
“If we make it back,” Zen said, “Before something bad happen.”
“You think something bad is going to happen?” Cameron leaned forward into the heat. “Like what? War with China?”
Zen looked him in the eye. “Maybe that. Maybe something else. Not know what – but something. Many feel it in Japan. Things cannot go on as they are – something big is coming.” The Westerners sat in silence as he continued. “Maybe the Earth will rebel… But it good for me – it probably necessary for enlightenment, to go into the next… dimension?” *
“That’s the word,” the shaman assured him.
“Next dimension is where we all need to go. The next level.”
“I understand,” Ram said slowly, “but you know – it isn’t necessary to die to achieve enlightenment.” He caught Mandy’s approving smile across the flames. Zen appeared nonplussed. “And if there are another series of dimensions beyond this one – not parallel universes, but higher geometric dimensions – you know what I mean?” Zen nodded, hanging on every word. “Then we must already be in them, they must be accessible to us from here.” He saw he was moving beyond the visitors’ comprehension of English and took another tack that dovetailed with Zen’s interest in physics. “If eleven dimensions exist then how can we only exist in three or four of them? We must extrude, project, into all of them already. Understand?”
“Hmmm. This is very interesting. It not be necessary to die to be there… but how?”
“You know that the way out is always in?” the shaman asked him. Zen nodded in time with Shi. “Meditation, and the conscious development of the wider supersenses available to us; conscious exploration of those realms that we already extrude into, learning to see with new eyes… Armageddon isn’t necessary to achieve enlightenment. Purification by fire is not something you need to go through. You are free now.”
“Many people in Japan think we must die to go on,” Zen said. “They think it a good thing. This is very interesting. I must think about this…”
“Many people think the same thing here, too,” Cameron sympathised. “But we have to go on and endure. It’s too easy the other way. ‘Nobody gets off until the mess is cleaned up.’ ”
The visitors nodded more profusely at this sage pronouncement.
The mess accumulates and energy swells as adventurous travelers strut toward the promise of a truly psychedelic experience - an indelible climax to the weekend’s hedonistic foreplay. By midday throngs already 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 conditions common during the last few years’ runaway greenhouse summers.
Yet 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 best buds, heads, colas and other 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 thoroughly 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 don’t 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 things which don’t want to be known?
Many of the visitors exist under a perennial stupor of paranoia in ‘normal’ workaday lives - fearing loss of station or job, marriage or children, 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, particularly, while walking and gawking down the main and almost only street of World Hippie Central. The alternative-minded but socially camouflaged throng doesn’t yet realise that they represent most of the world’s people – non-conformists at heart, who all live under the self-imposed harness of unnecessary fears, weighed down by the pointless guilt so keenly felt by true innocents deprived of normal human requirements, and made to 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 control 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 after a flavour that leads to the taste of other dimensions, fresher views - zestier, more riveting impressions of the sumptuous reality through which we otherwise drift like limbo-bound wraiths and automatons.
Most Mardi Grass revelers couldn’t give a damn about hypocritical, unjust laws and certainly know they’re not damaged or damned, but blessed to be out and about in one of the brightest, freest times and places in all the vast murky realms of human history.
Everyone’s here to party and experience 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, big and little old men and women, checkout chicks, lawyers, bureaucrats, proud parents carrying brightly bedecked newborn babes, emigrant Greek fishermen, Indian software writers and call centre voices, emo Goths - and anyone else not interested in being an active part of the subtly feudal friendly fascist police surveillance state of impersonal corporate Big Brother clones and militant industrialists - and all are seeking the selfsame source of the philosophers, stoned. A broad cross-section is represented, as they say, and just about everyone’s smiling.
Fleecy clouds begin coalescing in the wide open sky’s more distant margins, blowing apart in this late Interglacial Age’s inexorably rising winds. The Rainbow Region is multiply blessed with rich soil and Sun, sea breezes and rain, luxuriantly lush and deliriously green even at the end of a historic nationwide mother of all droughts, and for the first time the annual parade will be free of the double-edged benison of rain.
A good year for curing the mull, if you look on the bright side… Could be a good vintage… The shamanic prince’s thoughts flit hither and yon while he makes a sine wave beeline for the great Strangler Fig. The Tree of Life beckons, arching across the market ground’s outdoor stage as he strides through streams of fossicking punters hovering round myriad stalls and jewellery-strewn blankets. The future’s so bright we’ll have to wear shades…
He reaches the Chai Tent and gratefully slides into a mismatched litter of comfy cushions on the hempen expanse of canvas flooring. Each and every Mardi Grass, the space beneath the market site’s grand old fig is reserved for the Chai Tent, right beside the covered stage. The chai’s always good - if you wait for it to properly brew - gingery and purifying for the partied-out and jaded throng recovering from the pleasant excesses of Friday night.
After taking a breath Ram’yana rises to inspect a tasty array of homemade organic cakes while John ladles some brew into a varied menagerie of ceramic cups. Muzza and John are regular fixtures at most alternative events, their friendly bearded familiar faces ever beaming behind fluttering prayer flags and political messages. They help their latest 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 food vendors in the ‘alternative’ township pay any attention to actual human or environmental health, beyond ubiquitous legal requirements of sanitation, hygiene and the like. Most of what they sell to paying consumers is toxic crap, just like the stuff most human folk will eat before, during or after reading these words.
But in Nimbin the other half are still wonderfully fastidious and most local produce is fairly organic. It’s been decades since aerial spraying of Agent Orange was common in these parts – in a saleable form with a slightly different brand name, of course, sprayed directly into the waterways and everywhere else when the hippies first arrived; one more lasting legacy of war’s fine record of ongoing ‘technological advancement’.
In Vietnam the peasants had no idea 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 families and newcomer hippies alike. Still 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 products of Big Pharma and Big Oil and Big 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 food. 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 people wonder why they feel stoned all the time, why so many promising lives end so quickly.
It’s worth remembering, even if it’s unbelievable to most – three quarters of everything you eat, drink, breathe, touch, paint on yourself or wear is toxic, carcinogenic and debilitating. In a world where you rely on others instead of nature, all the crap you buy is made for making money, not for your health. As any individual toxic compound combines with all the other stuff in a ‘modern’ human body in ever more chaotic synergy, it’s no surprise almost everyone in the modern world is walking wounded, half asleep, barely here – role-playing the parts of automata in an industrial nightmare instead of being here now. Not to mention living ridiculously short, painful lives, in constant 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 place 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 different life in the last remnants of a healthier world. To bring every ‘lost’ dream all the way back from the last seed-source heartlands that still survive, and grow new lives that keep those heartlands sacred and inviolate. To grow a healthy world with a whole glowing soul. That’s the dream that most pursue or seek or view complete on the busy streets of Nimbin.
Here in the Rainbow Region a generation of brave beings has largely succeeded in their attempt to change the world 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 Shopping Bitch. Alternative notions have evolved into a hidden yet subtly influential nation nestled within the recovering rainforest canopy. Its denizens have no need to officially secede from the larger notional paradigm of Oz – nothing secedes like success.
The Prince of Centraxis allows a multitude of voices wash over him through the amplified reggae horn section while Celtic harpists work 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 prefer to give rein, and allow to reign through you?”
A high-pitched squeak obtrudes from a dozen paces distant; “Have you really looked at the shots of the twin towers exploding before they fall? Come on, it’s a crock of shit…”
“He’s selling ounces for a hundred but we have to be quick, it isn’t seedy…”
“Did you see those three girls doing it together at the doof?”
“Draw me a mud map and I can find it. Can we camp there, do y’reckon?”
“…working on a flow form whereby the superfine patterning embossed, as it were, on the metal substrate energises the water flowing across it…”
“What kind of metal?”
“…nuclear dump site for the rest of the world because that’s the only way we can have nuclear power plants and vice versa…”
“…but also draws slight but measurable and ultimately usable energy from the interaction…”
“…it’s all a little 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 remember, do you?”
“I’m going to hear that bloke from Canadia talk – you know, the one who got the medical exemption that says he can smoke?”
“I and eye don’ have t’worry, bud. Jah Rastafarii!”
“You mean it? How does that work?”
“You seen Narla? I lost ’er last night at the dance…”
“You mean your little girl?”
“Nah - her mum. Here – try some o’ this…”
“You know they had to let Rusty off all the charges?”
“Why? 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 instant that it takes f’ yer to decide to do it.” It’s all too fast unless yer pay attention…”
“Ram!” Phico grabs the shaman prince’s left bicep, beaming and grinning and passing him a spliff that’s seen better moments. “I knew you’d be in the Chai Tent – already ready for the parade, I see.” With a twinkle in each eye he scans the winged hat that surmounts wild ringlets of stream-washed hair cascading over Ram’s traditional Green Tiger Snake ensemble.
“Born ready. This is probably the only way you’ve seen me for the past few years, isn’t it?” He passes the joint back as he exhales and Phico points to a stranger seated beside them; the Danish youth is more than happy to take the smoke off Ram’s hands., and shares it with a trio of Iberian backpacking feral girls he’s enthusiastically regaling with a tale of a bust at a recent extralegal outdoor gig (ganja works wonders in overcoming all language barriers).
Cones burn brightly beneath the shade of trees and tarps and the sounds of burbling bong water occasionally drown out the acoustic mandolin player now braving the stage.
“It’s a year since we last met – right here, in fact.” Ram’yana begins to roll while watching an attractive acrobat twirl on a thick rope overhead, and long strands of auburn hair trail down between him and Phico.
“So it is. I’ll have to come visit you in the rainforest again. How’s it all going out in the wild, anyway?”
“Growing. The river’s perfect and there’s a bag of mandarins waiting for you at Star Earth.”
“Really? Thanks. It’s unusual that the river’s still doing well in the drought...”
Ram’s eyes crinkle with his grin. “Wonderfully unusual….”
A bearded harlequin with a starkly delineated clown face joins them, creating a tiny circle amid circles of other festival-goers. His eye sockets are molten blue streaks that descend past a radiant plastic rose of a nose. “Hey, bro, how’s it doing?” he shakes Phico’s spidery hand. “Hasn’t the weather been strange?” Ram’yana can’t resist responding; “‘Could it be… a warning?’” Phico laughs while the younger man looks puzzled. “Sorry,” Ram’ explains, “it’s a line from an old movie…”
“‘The Last Wave’, wasn’t it?” Phico recalls.
“That’s the one - the Peter Weir movie about a tidal wave presaged by weird weather, among other things. It’s a book as well, of course.”
“You don’t think we’re having one of those, do you?” The harlequin asks. “Not up here? What’s the altitude, anyway?”
Ram looks up and smiles at the sky. “Right here? A couple of hundred metres. Fine for just about anything except a bolide in the Pacific…”
“Mind you,” Phico observes as the remnant number returns to him, “the Pacific’s pretty big – about half the planet’s surface. Hitting it’s a fifty-fifty bet. Oh – Ram’yana, this is Wanji.” Clown and shaman nod to each other while a police patrol attempts to wade around them, negotiating a path through the chaotically seated audience with mildly distressed expressions.
“They look really uncomfortable.” Wanji smiles at the muscled men in their new camouflage riot gear, standing out like sullen depressed dog’s balls amid the happy campers. Everyone ignores them as they walk through fragrant clouds from the flagrant crowd. No-one even offers them a toke.
“Wouldn’t you be?” the pink-skinned alchemist asks rhetorically.
“Thanks. It’s been a good year – but this has helped.” He produces a clear stoppered bottle filled with a viscous pink fluid.
“What is it?”
“Seawater, converted far less than halfway to the Philosopher’s Stone.” He passes the bottle to Wanji, who inverts the thick fluid and rolls it around in the sealed bottle. “Huh? Sodium chloride that’s been enhanced, or what?”
“That’s close. More like gold chloride. How much do you know about alchemy?”
“Not a lot.”
“Well – that’s what cured my skin cancers. Some of my hair’s even growing back – see?” Phico bows his crown for their perusal.
“I thought you looked kind of pink and new or something…”
“In the pink, that’s a certainty,” Ram’yana agrees.
“Well – that’s one early physical manifestation of the Great Work,” Phico beams with modest intensity. “As is that bottle in your hand. I don’t have much, but use some of it if you feel the need.”
“Just smear it on.” Wanji eyes the pink goop dubiously. “Worked for me,” Ram’yana assures him. “See?” He raises his hat and lifts his hair to display his smoothly lined brow. “Last year there was a big grey splotch here. One application of that stuff and it’s still gone. Faded away in a couple of days.”
“Of course. I normally use saliva… and the most important aspect is the concomitant visualisation. You have to imagine yourself in perfect, robust health – and really feel it.”
“Your own spit is best,” Phico explains. “Or your urine will do.” Wanji opens the bottle and sniffs. “Or you can use that.”
“Chai?” Ram suggests, and rises to procure more of the rainbow market’s beverage of choice. A flock of two-foot tall, fairy-winged green toddlers surrounds his knees with star-spun magic wands held proudly aloft. They stream through the crowd of reclining smokers, recovering partiers, kissing lovers, munching tourists and dancing girls that surround the front of the stage in age-old homage to the latest bard while the acrobat spins on her rope three body lengths above their heads. Three ornately sequined, coin-draped, silk-clad belly dancers weave a rhythmic path through the audience with an earthy, sensual physicality, following the retreating cops while the aerialist twists and spins graceful helices.
“How’s it going!?” white-bearded Muzza calls from behind the counter, enthroned on a director’s chair that straddles a huge snaking root from the two hundred year old fig that buttresses the mobile caravanserai. Each night the Chai Tent houses squadrons of crashing night owls who can’t make it to their tents, or don’t have any other place to lay their heads. The sage-like elder isn’t expecting an audible reply, so Ram merely nods. “Already ready for the parade, I see!”
“Enough time for a chai – or three if you don’t mind.”
“Good timing,” says Muzza, “it’s perfect right now! Cow or soy?”
“Cow.” The prince selects the lesser of two evils; the dire toxic reality behind soy’s bright corporate promise has finally become evident, and now the hippy cognoscenti are aware that unfermented soybeans strip the human body of its capacity to absorb minerals from food, just as the plants they spring from strip nutrients from the rocky exoskeleton of Gaia. Soy products seemed like such a good idea at the time – during the short-sighted, fraudulent ‘green revolution’ that fed a fraction of yesterday’s world at the expense of tomorrow’s, and only succeeded in entrenching arms manufacturers in profitably toxic ‘agribusinesses’ that destroy the world’s ecosystems… and besides, the Chai Tent uses organic milk.
He barters for three steaming mugs and carries them to the cushioned floor where his associates are locked in conversation with a young barefoot dreadlocked woman half clad in an ornate batik sarong. “Ah, Ram’yana!” Phico hails, “Thank you! Do you know if HAARP is up and running?”
“You mean ‘HAARP’ as in ‘Angels Don’t Play This HAARP?”
“That’s the one.”
Ram’yana is again reminded of how much verbal communication is merely a holographic carrier signal for much more deeply enriched concepts, carrying telepathic messages within encapsulated shorthand - signals that usually pass unnoticed and unremarked in all apparently mundane conversation. He passes the cups to the men and hands his own to the woman who accepts it gratefully. “It’s been up and running – supposedly being tested – for about a year now,” he replies.
“Thanks. So what’s it stand for?” asks Wanji. “‘Hypnotic Attack Array Removing Primates’, or what?”
“‘Hyperspace Activation Arc Resonating Portal’, perhaps?” the unknown woman suggests.
“‘High Frequency Active Auroral Research Project’, I believe,” Phico explains. “It’s capable of doing many things. It alters the local frequency of the ionosphere, for a start, and therefore alters the threshold of alpha and beta waves in the human brain.”
“And it can fuck up the weather, too, can’t it?” Wanji asks.
“A full-scale demonstration of concept would raise or lower the atmospheric envelope,” Ram elucidates as a flock of rainbow lorikeets call loudly to one another overhead, “and that would automatically alter the Schumann Layer and the resonant frequency girdling the ionosphere…”
“...as well as create localised high or low pressure systems and possibly a whole lot more,” Phyco continues. The acrobat spins and contorts her fine, lithe body between earth and sky as the mandolin trills like a metallic songbird.
“Tell me,” Ram says between sips of steaming chai, “have you noticed an increase in apathy lately?”
“What,” Wanji smiles, “you mean like my get-up-and-go has got up and went? Funny you should mention that…”
“I’ve heard a lot of people saying the same thing lately,” the dreadlocked feral adds, “like everyone feels unsettled, like they don’t know what to do. Or want to do anything. So most of them are just keeping on doing what they normally do, but noticing that something’s not right… or something. Is that what you mean?”
“I thought it was just my libido,” surmises the clown.
The woman’s brown eyes twist to Ram’yana beneath the puzzled furrows of her frown. Wise eyes, Ram reflects as he nods; she continues after a sip of her tea. “A few people have mentioned the same thing. So what do you think it is?’
“What do you think?” he bats the question back to her.
She looks down into the swirling chai. “It feels to me like everyone realises that the game is about up, you know? Everyone knows the climate is up shit creek and the weather’s gone crazy and water’s running out and food’s probably next. So they’re all kind of in shock, you know?”
“I’ve noticed the same thing,” Phico agrees as she silences herself with a sip, “and that could be what’s behind it… but it could be something else, as well.”
“It’s a little like the shock that everyone felt during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Remember that?” Ram’yana asks the alchemist, noting the blank looks from the younger man and woman. “You’re a Baby Boomer, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, I know what you mean - now that you’ve jogged my memory,” Phico agrees. “Everyone was in shock and just kept going to work – well, most of them – and that was one major genesis of the mass social changes that followed, I reckon…”
“…During the ‘dawning of the Age of Aquarius’ in 1962 – just after the big line-up…” Ram’yana reminds him.
“That’s right,” Phico avers, “but I think this is something different as well. Sure, everyone seems to be grokking what the hippies and environmentalists have been telling them for yonks, but this is somehow different…. A deliberate, mass hypnotic zoning out…”
“‘Angels don’t play this harp,’” Ram says.
Phico eyes him seriously. “You may be right.”
“So you think this American array in what, Alaska, is responsible?” Wanji asks.
“The two phenomena seemed to start around the same time,” Ram replies noncommittally, still facing Phico. “You know what Burkie said about all this years ago?”
Phico enfolds the cup in his fingers, eyeing the shaman over his broth. “John Burke you mean? I thought this was after his time?”
“Or he was before his, perhaps,” Ram’yana smiles from beneath his white winged cap. “He said that it was equally possible that a great ‘error’ could occur – that the perpetrators could easily accidentally strum the right harmonic key to bring about full resonance, instead of creating global hypnosis…”
“And enlighten everyone accidentally! Of course!” Phico laughs. “What an intriguing possibility…”
The impromptu gathering of the New Illuminati ponders the moment, regarding the concept and vision that fill their momentarily multifocal consciousness with a unified withheld breath. The fragrant chai infuses them with its fiery inspiration and the acrobat twists and turns, spiraling around the rope suspended from the ancient fig tree while the band plays on…
A True Story
* Note – the Fukushima disaster had not yet occurred – R.A.
From The Prince of Centraxis via http://hermetic.blog.com/2013/02/08/prophetic-conspirators-psychedelic-water/
From The Prince of Centraxis via http://hermetic.blog.com/2013/02/08/prophetic-conspirators-psychedelic-water/
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