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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 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…”

A true story
By R. Ayana

Continues @ centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/prophetic-conspirators-… BE AWARE – THIS LINK LEADS TO IMPLICATE & XPLICIT CONCEPTS & IMAGES!