Friday, 30 January 2015

Feral Tribes: Saving Little Wonder 1


Feral Tribes
Saving Little Wonder 1 


Feral Tribes - Saving Little Wonder Part 1
(1:59:47)



Occupy the Forests! The true story of indigenous Australians reclaiming their stolen lives and lands with help from dreadlocked ferals and hippy activists.

Be aware - contains strong language, nudity, radical concepts and lifestyles. All people shown will be deceased one day (if they aren't already)

See Saving Little Wonder (Rough Cut) and more @ http://youtu.be/OrHyWM8LNgY

Save The World!

See more videos from this author and channel @ https://www.youtube.com/c/new1lluminati

A document by R. Ayana @ http://youtu.be/vmjDklXj6qE


Saving Little Wonder (Rough Cut)


(2:18:06)



Most people think of Australia – when they think of it at all - as a remote island continent of windblown deserts, red sand, sparse, dry gum trees, bounding kangaroos and hard sunburnt men riding sparse dusty ranges.  But like most continents the land varies between extremes of heat and cold, arid dryness and far lusher climes.

Not all of the Great Southern Land is parched grass and sand. The entire east coast – where most people live – is green and fertile. When Europeans arrived a little over two centuries ago the eastern region was almost all one gigantic primordial forest, colloquially known as the ‘Big Scrub’. Most was rainforest, virtually undisturbed for millions of years. Many of the plants and animals that lived there remain unknown to us today - utterly annihilated when the rainforests were almost completely destroyed by optimist white colonists pursuing fleeting riches.

The first settlers and their convict slaves saw the forests as an inexhaustible, self-renewing resource. They took the few ‘valuable’ trees they wanted and burned the rest, vaporising an ancient, priceless, unique resource for a few generations of cattle and sheep. Humungous trees, thousands of years old were felled and burned, just as they are in the Amazon and New Guinea (as the same was done long ago in Asia and Europe), and the thin soil began to wash away and clog the pristine rivers. No-one bothered to catalogue the plants and animals that were destroyed. Entire ecosystems unlike any on the planet were completely wiped out.

In their desperate ignorance they destroyed the forests, the rivers, the soil and ecosystems that had quietly dreamed through eternal aeons in this remote corner of the world. And they stole the land and lives of the island continent’s original inhabitants, enslaving the remnants and forcing them to do their dirtiest work.

Just enough remains to provide us with sketchy inklings of what once was here. There are still a few last small seed-source refuges that make possible the renewal of some of the ancient forests to their former glory – after a few centuries of unimpeded growth.

Now greedy men and women want to take the best of the rest. Rapacious corporations and government flunkies want to chop down most of the last intact wild ecosystems and replace them with industrial forestry – converting the last unique primordial ecosystems to toothpicks, wood chips, smoke and ashes.

Some special places are so precious that when they’re threatened, defenders arise to stem the wave of destruction. When some forests are threatened, wise souls assemble beneath their canopies. Some join members of indigenous tribes to save the last intact fragments of the ancient forests that birthed us all.

Indigenous Australians still inhabit the lands of their ancestors. They have never signed any treaties or agreements with the supposed conquerors who usurped their lives and lands. They still own the continent.

This is the story of how they saved a real Little Wonder…


Until next time…

This is a true story, rushed to your screen from the archives of Australia's forest wars because these unique forests are under threat again after the election of rapacious, destructive governments by careless brainwashed voters.

Part 2 – Water and Fire - Coming Soonish
A document by R. Ayana







Feral Chef! Cooking With Roadkill 


And see Wild Life @ http://centraxis.blogspot.com/2009/01/springs-eternal-wild-life-1.html 

For more information about forests see http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/forests   
- Scroll down through ‘Older Posts’ at the end of each section


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From Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com

Friday, 26 December 2014

Lust Daze of Ancient Sunlight: Psychedelic Water 30

Lust Daze of Ancient Sunlight

Psychedelic Water 30
*


“Every hill is a personality – every tree, every bush and flower and frog and fly, all conscious, all people…” He’s absorbed into refractions of liquid crystal, rippling rings extending in all directions and dimensions from the river’s small pool, expanding spheres of pressure and pleasure that ripple in waves all the way through him and though Her - the tantric priestess who melts and melds with him.

“They may say the same of us.” Her voice thrums through his breastbone. Sweat-slippery thighs squeeze round his waist, clearly designed to slot betwixt his ribs and hipbone as surely as their loins join with such seamless surety. Her heat burns undiminished all around him. Her scent has transformed into a buttery spice, redolent of patchouli with a highlights of musk and nutmeg.

He can feel a knowing presence bearing down through the treetops, a gently sardonic awareness focused upon their jigsaw primate bodies and soaring, searing souls – an immensely, intimately present being, as large as the slab of the horizon that rears skyward across the creek. Because that’s what I was expecting? a corner of his monkey mind inquires. The presence seems to smile with a stony humour tinged with wry warmth of recognition.

He senses a kaleidoscopic mix of curiosity, resignation, presentiment, acceptance, judgement, paternalistic parental regard, an eternal adamantine strength of conviction and unyielding will and, above all a compassionate, loving intimacy; a scent of powdered stone and eucalypt, flavours of lichen, dittany and dust garnished with a jangled tangle of static electricity. He senses an eldritch presence so large and ancient that they and their lives are tiny as insects – yet it appears to observe them with a respect approaching love, seemingly viewing them as close relations; or perhaps as personable pets.

And, he realises, it views them as intriguing vessels to explore, filled with a nectar of wishes, dreams, mysteries and conundrums.

An electric blue dragonfly appears as if from nowhere and hovers directly in his line of sight, black stalky eyes staring straight into his brain along the tunnel of his vision. When he feels a certain contact has been made the brilliant insect zips aside and levitates above its warped reflection for a few moments before it changes tack. His eyes track the impressive little flyer as it surfs a ripple rising from the surface and rides it through the infinite sea of the sky. It pauses directly above the mystery woman’s liquid black hair as her lips unpeel from his collarbone.

Her flame-shot irises rise to meet his. Those eyes… An electric jolt flares through the base of his balls to rear up his spine as his cock flexes deep inside the overheated furnace of the sleek woman’s elfin belly. He watches tiger-stripe patterns play across her face as she sighs and grips him in response, with a grasp that stills his breath. He flexes inside her again, swelling and jolting up against the limits of the fey Asiatic woman’s silken interior. Half a smile curves half her mouth as she grinds down even closer. “Where on Earth did you learn that?”

His voice seems to issue from a source somewhere other than his own mind. “The Earth is a great teacher.” Amber’s fingers extend around his shoulder blades and her palms flatten onto his skin. He feels the torrid heat of her handprints burning though his breeze-cooled flesh, almost as hotly as her interior twines about his motionless manhood when she shifts in his lap. “Thou art Djinn, not Tantricka,” the voice that issues from his mouth observes as his hands spontaneously caress her flanks. Her golden thighs are as slim as his biceps yet her grip is unshakeably firm.

“Do you dream of genies?” She leans back to focus on his face and her hands slide onto his shoulders while the slippery rings of her blazing marrow draw up along his shaft.

Speech is impossible for a few ecstatic moments before his lips move again.  “I know I’ve dreamed of you – of this…” He strokes her sides with his fingertips, feels a delicious shiver sliver through her. “If you’re a genie, what happens when I rub you?”

“You have to rub me up the right way.”

“Catlike… so feline… let’s see…” Like a growing tree root he swells up into Her slowly, gradually growing deeper into the magmatic loam of Her flesh. She moves from buttock to buttock in his cross-legged lap, squeezing him from side to side inside the lusty sensorium of her delicious body. Her eyes burn straight through his affectations, his pretences, his personality, to bore directly into the source of his awareness.

A light ignites inside his brain, a spark that flares at the core of his mind, in the centre of his head – and at that self-same centre within the Amber goddess who shares Her skin – her entire being - with his. He feels what it’s like to ride astride a human male, the harder planes, the rougher textures, hair and sinew, muscle and bone, larger, stronger, less flexible, less sensitised, more impermeable, solid as a tree trunk for femaleness to wrap and warp around with a made-to-measure fit.

He feels the fulcrum of a lingam standing hard and fast in the core of his belly, a lever around which his/Her body moves and ripples and grasps and soars. And he feels Her will, Her perspective inside him, feels Her moving his body into a position more suited to Her wishes as that supple flesh grapples with his, melds around his, meeting, greeting, sucking and fucking until he’s riding inside Her, inside him, inside both bodies at once, both of them the drivers of their marionette bodies and simultaneously just along for the ride as their flesh enacts the steps of an ageless dance.


We…

And all, in all, ineffably slow, barely moving, gently probing, gradually stretching, slowly melding, squeezing, tasting and yielding in an ongoing entry into the source of deeper mysteries. Riding each other, as we are ridden… He thinks the thought is his, yet it’s delivered in Amber’s tenor. And she, he, they are filled by waves of energy emanating from the adamantine entity that’s gently exploring their conjoined souls.

Better… The mind of the mountain rears up inside them as sunlight pours down through the canopy. Just as he begins to savour the alien flavour of Amber’s thoughts, everything shifts and dissolves into sparkling whiteness in a hiss of white noise that rises through their bodies as an unstoppable fountain and envelopes, surpasses, blows away their private primate minds.

 You bring another female… Not heard in words, but the sense is plain, delivered as an unforgiving statement, a judgement tinged with patient sternness yet somehow tempered with knowing complicity; an image of he and Amber joined in a molten mass of gently fucking flesh as he feels the heat rise within her in seeming response to the other, more powerful presence.

And another image that flashes even more brightly to plague his awareness – the splendid, terrible, unforgettable memory of his previous paramour spreadeagled nakedly atop the altar of the sacred rocks.

As the vision arises Amber seems to lose all control, thrashing around his cock, ramming herself down and up, up and down, screaming in an utterly uncharacteristic display of wanton, mindless animalistic fucking that perfectly mimics the style of the erstwhile lover he suddenly recalls - and brings him all the way back into his manimal body, tempting him to pick her lithe little body up and fuck her with identical abandon.

You bring another… another lover, from afar… different, changing, changeling,, nearby the waters of daughters, away from the spines… spires… sires… inspires… Meanings meander and warp through his mind as the rolling Voice pierces the rising veil of their lust.

She comes of her own will…

We come… Her agreement is plain in the melded three-way converse – and, as if in exclamation, his/Her body convulses and spasms around his/Hers, and the shaman’s mind is burned away in a blinding, roaring, ecstatic rushing tsunami of flaming, flaring, exploding light as he comes with Her, as Her, unmoving while Her body thrusts and fucks all around him - roaring her name as he jets liquid flame deep inside the core of Her famished womb.

 

“Hey man, is that a joint?” In this state of heightened awareness it’s obvious that the bearded man who reclines amid the long tall grasses (observing all with a watchful eye) has sent his delightful girlfriend to make this inquiry. She seems utterly unfazed by her nudity or theirs as she stares at the glowing source of a smoky tendril that rises, serpentine, into the riverine canopy.

For quite a few moments he can’t respond. Holding the wondrous goddess close and tight while colours swirl and scents combine with synchronous bird calls, a corner of his mind merely wonders at the girl’s unfazed effrontery. His face tilts upward to meet hers and Amber shifts round him once more as Her lips leave a moist trail along his neck.

Ram’s eyes rove the engaging form that rears statuesque above their entwined bodies. The dreadlocked teen’s deeply tanned skin is freckled with even darker spots, arrayed in constellations that illustrate her fine nubile form in bold attestation of sun-loving naturism. “Aye,” he says as he passes the smoke into her outstretched hand. “With a twist of baccie.” Her fingers linger by his for a moment before she raises the tube to cherubic lips.

“Great!” she says by way of thanks and starts to suck greedily, closing her eyes. Amber shifts around in his lap and watches the deep inhalation make the feral girl’s ribcage distend as her pointy teats rise skyward. “Damien won’t want any then,” the teen says through a vortex of smoke. “He only has his straight.” She takes another draw and squats beside them before passing it to Amber, holding her breath and enveloping them in unmistakeable olfactory traces of her recent lovemaking. The familiar funk of sex hangs over her, a sweaty, piquant, almost acrid seminal scent that’s utterly different to Amber’s creamy spiciness.

“Any for sale?” the girl sputters, trying to hold in the smoke. Ram shakes his head and she turns to her beau and shakes hers, making dreads swirl, Medusa-like, about her plump-cheeked oval face. The bearded man turns away, instantly disinterested, while a flock of topknot pigeons alights in the treetops above them. Amber tokes gingerly, watching his face as he watches the newcomer.

He watches his mind watching the girl; is aware of his renewed arousal as he observes his primate thoughts assemble possible sentences from the building blocks of habit, design and desire; Beautiful day… great festival… interesting tatt… as his eyes rove the pattern that’s etched on her belly, just below a glittering golden navel ring. “The Flower of Life,” Amber says as she passes the last of the joint to her lover. The thrum of her voice travels right through her body, and his, as she shifts round his resurgent erection. Somehow he senses the wondrous Asian woman isn’t even faintly jealous of his distracted regard.

The girl glances down to the monochrome tattoo, barely visible against the deep brown of her skin. Her sleek mammalian form shimmies and shimmers in the heat of the day. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Aye,” he replies, “and from the Flower grows the Tree.” As he mentions the glyph, the actual Tree of Life appears through and around his body; colourful spheres of etheric light that grow from tiny crystalline seeds implanted in his aura by dint of longstanding magical training. His spine straightens automatically while the foreshortened form of the Tree takes shape in his seated body, interpenetrating the planet from the base of his spine and rising to the brilliant Crown that surmounts his head with an infinite bloom of illumined petals. As he slowly inhales, the inner amber Sun dawns in his solar plexus and swells through his aura with a warm golden glow and his shaft swells to full hardness inside Amber’s belly.

The stranger’s mouth quirks as her hazel eyes meld to his. “Trees grow from seeds, not flowers,” she says, reaching for the joint that smoulders forgotten in his fingers.

“What comes first, the chicken or the egg?” asks Amber.

“I always come first,” the girl says with a grin. A brown hand sweeps hanging tendrils of dreads from her face and her dazzling grin broadens while her eyes remain locked on Ram’s. He’s aware of the equally sun-browned man’s attention returning to them as a vague sense of suspicion and proprietorial edginess that creeps into the margins of his perception.

Yet Amber seems utterly unfazed by the girl’s flip reply or her fixated regard. “They both come together,” she says, twisting around the spar of Ram’s lingam to face the girl more directly. He barely restrains a gasp and sees those hazel eyes drop to the place where they’re joined, watches those bright white teeth bite into her lower lip, notices the way those lambent nipples begin to harden and grow from the puckered brown soil of her aureoles; feels his animal response rear inside Amber’s gripping steaminess.

The feral girl looks down into Amber’s fiery eyes, places the rest of the joint between her lips and, with a deep needy draw, sucks it all the way down to the roach. “Why don’t you give her some?” Amber suggests, staring into the other female while gripping him inwardly and brushing a wavy lock from his brow. He examines her expressionless features, unsure he’s heard her challenge correctly and thoroughly aware of his sudden arousal. The girl’s entire body stiffens as the Asiatic woman rises halfway up his mast when she reaches for the pile of their belongings, partly revealing his slick white thickness and eliciting a low moan from her mate. “Mmm,” she echoes as she twists back with his pouch in her hand. “So her man can have some, too.”

He takes the stash and opens it, pulls a handful from the bag within and offers it to the girl with a wry smile. Her eyes dart to the mull and her lips form an O. “Wow!” she exclaims, staring at the herb as though he was offering her a handful of gems. “You’re sure? Thanks!”

“Come have some more with us – when you’re finished,” Amber suggests. She turns away from the girl, scrunches back down into Ram’s lap and wraps all her limbs about his trunk, gripping him tightly inside and out as she leans upward to kiss his surprised lips. Her eyes burn into his as she leans even closer until they’re locked brow to brow, and those orange irises morph into a single bright eye burning all the way to the core of his being.

Silken breasts mash into his hairy chest as her delicately smooth face rubs into his beard. Her loins, as always, are torrid lava that grasp and twist with a will of their own as she sits, apparently unmoving astride him. The singleton Eye burns a path through his soul until their vision and they are one. The rest of the universe dissolves.

He doesn’t notice that the feral girl hasn’t departed for quite some time, and a Vision Splendid enfolds his mind....


 

All human civilisation is a vast Ponzi scam, a pyramid scheme operated by blind functionaries who finger the Braille of the world and convince themselves they can define reality by tangible things they can touch - imagining they may own the world, or at least a portioned parcel of it, tied up with fences and paper lines on partial maps of an impartial territory.

The Great God-Goddess, the Mother, Gaia, smiles on while multifarious children pursue dreams and passions, hopes and fears, nightmares and attachments of delicate devising; dreams of truth and honour, duty, belief, desire - clinging to trappings adhered to Her skirts by sincerely striving  generations of similar seekers, driven devotees and alliterate authors of intractable tracts and prescriptive proscriptive cultish religions.

The sins of the mothers and fathers are writ larger and smaller, revised through each ongoing regeneration.

The great holographic union of the cosmos is neither male nor female, rational nor emotional, neither here nor there but everywhere, everyone and everywhen at once. There is no progress, regress or egress, for time is just another dented, demented dimension, infinitely malleable and actually non-existent. A dream.

Every child knows the nature of mortal immortality in the instant of birth. We are each of us infinite clouds of stardust shaped by temporal intemperate fantasy – impossible hopes made manifest daily in cloying clay suits of meandering flesh, cloaking and stoking the inner fires of soul and spirit with every emotional motion.

From the very first moment the fears and hopes of parents and families and schools and governments mould each growing mind to fit a role befitting the greater good, the larger tribe, the notional nation of hidebound hives and pretty, shitty, suck-titty cites which can’t survive without endless slavery and unequal sharing in the age old feuds of feudalism.

“Be yourself!” slave masters exhort as they bind each being to arbitrary plans; “Find your niche” and “do your part” - “work, consume, reproduce and die” so the comfort of victors can be maintained by  hordes of victimised naïfs and knaves who imaging themselves as something other than facile vassals and brainwashed slaves.

The Mother is greater than Planet Earth; oft ascribed as Her body and soul it is but a symbol of infinite glory. She is no anthropomorphic vision of self, projected into greater inchoate realms - neither god nor goddess in some greater reality, but the true love of self in everyone’s child, for love is merely recognition in a mirrored maze of reflected emission. Neither woman nor even man, not goddess or god, the divine being is really a dancing dragon – the worm Orouboros devouring itself with ongoing creation of forms and substances, round and rounder, over and over for ever and ever.

And within her womb many creatures are formed, discarded or ultimately birthed as experiments, experiencing all they themselves create of the living, breathing, mutable world. Free willed and fluxing as the greater being who brought them forth, we enter worlds of evolving creation and enact passion plays on the stages of ages for the distracted amusement of infinite consciousness.

You are divine and the world is you, projected order in seas of chaos. Freedom is free, but not free of consequence. When you crave direction from god or guide or father or mother or teacher or guru beware what you wish for; you’ll get it. Get it?

That’s how we got here, encased in a gemstone of civilisation whose impossible task is creation of permanence in an ever shifting sea of timespace – forever and ever one step behind the heels of reality, forever trapped on the wheel of duality, just one step ahead of the needs of today.

Seize the day, for there is no other, sister and brother. Just you and me, being here now, bending the odds to our will.

Yet some crave greater, wider, wilder glories and deeper, longer amortal perspectives. In the vast field of timespace are manifold beings, and some are far older and bolder than humans. Some see themselves as fractals of All, old wyrms that mimic god-goddess Orouboros in form and nature – and supernature – and think they know what’s best for all.

The Serpent People - Reptilians who echo the arcane survivalist Archons that inhabit and inhibit collective consciousness, feeding on their formless prerogatives and reforming these ancient drives and drivers with a will of their own. In here, within, there be dragons who dwell beyond mortal time, adhering to plans of their own.

One of these dragons lived on Earth for a time, at the behest of Mother Gaia Herself, an immortal being  who came equipped with powers she needed to ensure the survival of all her children in a time of great tumult and cosmic catastrophe.

The Dragon holds one ideal above all others – a changeless path through eternity – and is suitably equipped with means and methods to ensure its preservation. Unforseen, unplanned change is anathema to one who would live – and see – forever; to one who can chart a track through the futures, a navigator who steers a course past all obstacles on its flight toward infinity.

The Old Wyrm shaped and cut the clay of women and men into what they’ve become today; tribal apes with pack mentalities transformed into pupae in a vast throbbing hive, a pyramid scam devised to bind time and fix traits for purposes way and beyond those of any individual hominid’s needs or desires.

Dynasties chart the Dragon’s path, reiterating similar shapes through time – an ongoing succession of bodies to inhabit in a realm of finite lives, to ensure the pyramid structures of insectile civilisations remain intact and essentially unchanging.

And he created human dynasties based on male succession, for in the sexless Dragon’s world reproduction means precisely that – unchanging reiteration and a profusion of vessels at the top of the social heap, lest some or many be destroyed or altered beyond resonance with his – its – will. A succession of bodies to inhabit was required, always at or near the summit of power, ready to be possessed when the host of the old emperor’s body gave up the ghost.

The Old Wyrm is the father of all patriarchy, discrimination – for better and worse - and social hierarchy. He designed a net to hold the Earth preserved in perpetuity, a structured gridwork of geometries designed to provide safety – and power - in time of unprecedented troubles. Enthroned upon the seats of power arrayed around the spinning globe, he set a stable path for primates to follow – but primates are notoriously wilful, curious and changeable beasts, dreamers with dreams impossible to control and suppress ad infinitum. They are, by nature, neither dragon nor insect, but bonded packs of likeminded beings; ultimately malleable, bent on loyalty, ever striving for improbable dreams.

The Dragon had wilful sons, and even more wilful daughters.

The best laid plans of mice, men and dragons are doomed and blessed to go awry. Even the changeless must someday change, when faced with the reality of Gaia. The Dragon’s idea of truth was changelessness, but Her view of truth is diversity. Her parting gift to the Dragon was change.

And so here we are, naked in the new dawn, and our daddy dragon has gone away; god isn’t dead, but sleeping – elsewhere – far from our Mother’s breast, as we dream new dreams with a melded new mind, changed by our brush with changelessness. It’s all up to us. We are Her preservers now.

That’s what we had – and have – to learn.

*


A True Story

Continues…


- R.A.

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