Water Power
Psychedelic Water 11
*
Ram’s eyes rove around the smoky rural town hall that’s been transformed into a mystical fantasia for the annual trans-legal event. Silhouettes and shadows dance through flashing bursts of amorphous nebulae as geometrical patterns weave through the slowly assembling semicircular audience. The raised stage is filled with colourfully clad jamming musicians and exotically decorated dancers, who sway, shimmy and shake to complex rhythms and interleaving melodies.
A relaxed group of revellers sits patiently at the side of the hall, awaiting the more formal entertainments at the official opening of this year’s Nimbin Mardi Grass. Slack-jawed or beaming, munching organic treats or chewing greasy burgers, toking, rolling or leaning back and giggling while their trips and eccies come on, a representative cross-section of the world-spawned inhabitants of the Land of Oz gather in the psychedelically enhanced evening. The energy levels are rising in parallel with the stars beginning to shine above the easternmost tip of the island continent – and every man and woman who’s managed to run the gauntlet of police to make it here is a star.
Ram has a toke on a smoke that’s passed to him by an anonymous member of the crowd and passes the spliff to another appreciative member of the encompassing human vortex. A gleaming pair of glass-shielded eyes winks at the bearded shaman from the gaggle of MCs perched in the raised bio box, and the particularly bushy visage of Count Cagliostro emerges from the gloom behind the well-protected fortress of projector stands and mixing gear. The talented musician and uniquely creative artist beckons as he descends to greet his similarly bearded contemporary with a nod and a smile.
“What time are you playing?” Ram’yana asks as he steps from the crowd and approaches the count; his yell is almost lost amid the rising thrum of didgeridoo, guitar, congas, sax and sundry electronica.
“Not for hours yet.” Cagliostro’s eyes crinkle as he smiles through his beard and crooks a long index finger before the shaman’s face. “Come with me.” He turns and leads the way to the rear of the stage, threading a path through a swaying school of fairy-clad teenage priestesses with nary a backward glance to check if his friend is following. He holds the door open as Ram enters the backstage dressing room, which is currently devoid of people but crammed with a collection of instruments awaiting their hour of glory, recumbent in open velvet-lined cases or leaning against spidery metal stands.
“It’s pretty good,” Cagliostro says when he closes the door. He lifts a blue velvet cloak lying over a pile of equipment and rummages through a mandolin case obscured beneath its distractingly bright hue. “Here,” he says, retrieving a glass phial of clear liquid that looks like water - a thoroughly inadequate yet nonetheless illuminating modern substitute for the fabled Oil of the Philosopher’s Stone.
The shaman sits and crosses his legs on a hessian mat in the centre of the scarred wooden floor, and Cagliostro removes the cap from the phial and leans forward with an eyedropper poised in his hand. “One drop or two? Or maybe three, for you?”
“Dosage?” the mage inquires of his benefactor.
“Around a hundred per drop.” The count means a hundred micrograms; very few substances are measured in millionths of a gram - a measure, in this case, not merely of strength but also of subtlety. “I suppose the psilocybin won’t have ruined my tolerance,” the shaman muses as he stares at the proffered eyedropper.
“Try three.” The count shrugs and squeezes out the first drop into Ram’s open mouth, as the shaman sits with head tilted back and with tongue poised on the roof of his palate. Utterly scentless and almost entirely tasteless, the transcendental fluid enters ducts beneath his raised tongue and slithers down his throat. The sensation of its passage slips all the way down to his belly, where the dissolving presence is joined by a second drop - and then another splash enters Ram’s closing mouth. “Ah, fuck it, you can handle it.” Another pair of droplets sprays from the shaman’s teeth to land under his tongue as a fourth and fifth portion of the complex brew slinks into his membranes.
“Many thanks,” Ram murmurs; his emerald eyes are already sparkling. He withdraws a pouch that was given him by an Aboriginal elder and opens the handmade stash bag on his knee. He lifts his hand and sprinkles chunks of dried flowers into the open palm of his benefactor. “Totally organic.”
Cagliostro sniffs the proffered bouquet, his lips and moustache quirking upward as he holds the shaman’s eyes with his quizzical gaze. “Mm… thanks. You grow it?” He stashes the phial back in the instrument case while the shaman replies; “It grew itself.” When the magicians take their leave of the muted soundproofed space they’re instantly catapulted into the chaotically harmonic milieu on the other side of the backstage door, and Cagliostro turns with an entreaty; “Tell me what you think after you’ve tested it – this is the latest batch...”
“What time are you playing?” Ram repeats when they shake hands, grip fingers and link forearms in a common version of the near-universal alternative grip. Cagliostro shrugs. “You know how it is.” He gestures at the stage where the musicians are just coming into their stride, surrounded by fluorescing lycra-sheathed dayglow dancers. “Everything’s almost on time this year – unusual… but we’ll be a while.”
The shaman and the artist dwell on the fringes of a repressive, semi-militarised global culture in which chemically induced consciousness expansion is outlawed, or strictly curtailed and discouraged where it isn’t possible to ban herbal enlightenment outright. Benign transformative substances and safe organic compounds are commonly prohibited, while death-dealing alcohol and other lethal drugs are freely dispensed from a world-wide network of government sanctioned poisoned waterholes and chemical dispensaries. The widespread trade in more toxic and thoroughly adulterated illicitly manufactured drugs such as speedy amphetamines and mind-smacking opiates is even more profitably lucrative and extensive than the trade in oil and coal.
Benign healthful herbs such as damiana, valerian, comfrey, hemp and other ancestrally worshipped and historically indispensable healing plants are banned for public use - caught in the grab-bag of proscribed drugs not prescribed or manufactured by conniving pernicious chemical companies. Purblind corporate thugs masquerade as ‘wonder drug’ wizards - while they bribe legislators and doctors to recommend their poisoned potions and to falsify or ignore any inconvenient data.
If a handful of killers and their stockholders are to continue making oodles of money from never-ending toxic chemical treatments, real cures must be ruthlessly and continuously suppressed by well feted medical authorities, profit-taking corporate poisoners and their well-bribed government lackeys.
The cornucopia of truly lethal half-baked concoctions continues to pour into voracious gullets and eternally flowing bloodstreams, tranquilising and entertaining the all-consuming population of a highly strung world. The ongoing madness fuels a vast hoard of unearned finances pouring into the coffers of illustriously overpaid legal liars, spawning and spawned by senseless laws that recast normal human recreational and spiritual activities as ‘crimes’.
Such fictitious misdemeanours as smoking a herbal cigarette or eating a wild mushroom are punishable by penalties ranging up to death in some particularly paranoid countries, and lengthy prison sentences or societal exile are the penalties most other nations apply to ‘crimes’ of innocent victimless pleasure.
Only those substances that make populations more malleable, productive and predictably reactive are sanctioned by the corporate governors who style themselves as the elite powers that be. Clean organic alchemic compounds that actually heal people and/or expand their awareness grow increasingly rare, swamped by the adulterated calcified concoctions and confections made by inexpert worshippers of greed-tainted money, who - as anyone not coopted into their system can easily see - are automatically not wise healers or seekers of evolutionary transformation.
Populations are trained to fear their own minds and to avoid shamanic substances and other ‘drugs’ – even those that can and actually do cure cancer - as they would some turbid, unfathomable, uncontrollably chaotic unknown; that’s what consciousness expansion is, for those who are taught to fear their own shadow and toe an arbitrarily ordained line.
At the beginning of the Third Millennium, pharmaceutical companies and chemists are visionless tinkerers searching after false illusions of efficiency and massive profits to underwrite further blind groping researches. They’re not in the business of curing people. Few are interested in (or aware of) the way alchemy interacts with and promotes living passion and growth - or even understand the real needs of living, feeling, thinking beings.
Lying for money, prestige and power is normal in a society which has lost The Way – a primitive, adolescent culture with no memory of their grandparents’ Golden Rule and no realisation that we create the world we have to inhabit with our thoughts, words and deeds.
The citizenry remains largely isolated from and unaware of the existence of those few rare substances (lost amid the maelstrom of alcohol and white powder chemicals) that can unleash their potential, rather than bury or obscure it. For the cognoscenti who avoid the brutalising chemistry routinely imbibed by the ignorant, the challenge is mastery of the self; mind and motive and communion with one’s ‘higher’ selves are paramount to the most discerning explorers of all. Many intrepid adventurers explore levels of awareness at or beyond the edge of mundane perception, but intention and motive remain all-important for all who would truly transform their dreaming selves.
The shaman reaches the lamp-lit street, where robotic blue-clad agents patrol amid the wandering horde of intrepid flower children. Hypnotised and brutalised extensions of the tyrannical Rex Mundi - the disincarnate authority-dispensing King of the World – the sauntering mobs of cops are hollow straw men, devoid of meaning or substance in the peaceful surroundings of the hippy village.
The Blue Meanies are lost, fearful and out of place behind their obdurately violent ‘peace-keeping’ fronts. Told to expect riots, trouble and strife, the lawmen are puzzled and disappointed by the lack of biffo as they watch the particoloured crowd consummate itself in a peaceable convocation of chaotic hedonism.
The shaman overhears a pretty visiting tourist from the northern Cold Ghost beaches snicker when her girlfriend says, “Gives now meaning to the word ‘constable’, doesn’t it?” He turns to see a pair of policewomen trotting along the road, riding astride massive Danish canal horses that sport carefully braided manes and tails. “At least three that I can think of offhand,” the giggling tourist replies. The horses’ eyes roll and their nostrils flare as they clip-clop through clouds of smoke, incense and funky pheromones.
Street stalls operated by hooded grandmothers and intrepid teenage bakers offer wares from trays and baskets overflowing with resinous cookies, cakes and chocolate, vending psychoactive comestibles and sweets to the ravenous Munchkins and faerie folk thronging in the byways. The sweet treats are all laced with varying doses of leaf, heads or oil, and Ram’yana decides to leave well enough alone for the nonce.
The bakers are engaged in the most dangerous trade of all who deal on the friendly streets; if they’re busted selling cookies, the charge against them is commensurate with the weight of their produce, regardless of how much THC is actually present in their confections. Kilos of even the tamest cookies represent a very high-order offence.
“Hi Ram!” The shaman turns to face two men standing behind him in the shadows of the crowd-clogged footpath. One wears a broad tattered straw hat; he and his bearded companion nod in smiling unison as the shaman greets them. “Aye! Fancy meeting you here!” They all nod and smile in a unified harmony of aligned chemistry.
“How could I miss it? Ram – meet Mech!” The High Elf’s hat nods as he introduces his friend and their eyes gleam conspiratorially beneath the wide shadowy awning. He shouts over the hubbub. “Having a good time? You’re looking well!” The flow of air becomes translucently visible and every person and object around the hippies develops a coloured aura, vibrantly scintillating between their physical forms and the enveloping biosphere of the living planet. The psychedelic paintings that cover the town’s buildings begin to animate themselves, mirroring the multidimensional activity on the main street as their colours smear and shift.
Dayglow visions of feminine loveliness and monochrome legions of Goths and emo metal heads stream around the tripping trio. Music pours from multiple sources that entwine into a single humming signal, resonating deep within the rocks and crystals that lurk beneath the pounding feet and temporary constructs of a self-limiting civilization.
Ram’s attention is suddenly filled by a vivid awareness that the gaily painted village has been plonked down amid the ancient sacred rainforest, whose memory-seeds hibernate in the black rocks and red soil. It’s obvious to the trio that they’re all in the throes of a trip’s early stages, and the eternally graven messages of life and light in extension percolate into their combining awareness; the trippers rock on their heels while they witness the unplumbed depths resonating within the clamour of the surface world.
The native life-force slumbers on as it whispers to those with ears to hear, still dreaming here and now in the days of future past; ‘Every passing moment is a chance to turn it all around…’ The Ancient of Days murmurs through the fabric of the world; ‘The greatest surprise is that this existence never ends – this is eternity…’ The voice whispers its unending message into the souls of the living while the world teeters on the brink of anything and everything. ‘The moment of wonder is never far away…’
“O, aye!” Ram agrees. “A very good time.”
“I’ve been following your ‘Fire from Water’ series on the New Illuminati website,” the High Elf tells him. “It’s very interesting. Brown’s gas could really save the planet, couldn’t it? Is Yull Brown still alive?”
“No,” Ram’yana replies. “He died a couple of years ago. But his equipment’s still available. There are links on the site – and at RamPage.”
“Speaking of the Web - have you seen that clip showing the motor that continues to run after the fuel supply’s been removed?” The High Elf extricates locks of his straw-coloured hair from beneath the identically hued hat. “Aye,” the shaman replies while he marvels at the varied constructions of human anatomy parading along the psychedelic street. “You’re talking about the ‘Joe Cell’, aren’t you?”
“That’s it,” says Mech, “That’s the one. It’s powered by Orgone, isn’t it?” Every dark hair sprouting from his face is electrically alive, twisting and curling to the dictates of unseen energy flows. Perspiration sheens his smooth brow and his eyes rotate on the ends of stalks inserted through his skull. Ram’yana opens his mouth and hears words pouring from his lips; “Orgone, prana, chi, the Odic current, the zero-point quantum foam, the living luminiferous aether…”
The dark-haired man nods with each Name of the All. “We just watched the clip on Utube. When one sceptical investigating scientist leans forward and puts his hands on the body of the car, the motor stops instantly,” Mech observes, smoothing his moustache with calloused fingertips that emerge from fingerless woollen gloves.
“It’s all a matter of belief,” the shaman replies. “The matrix of the mind and will must be tuned to the task…”
“As with alchemy,” the High Elf draws the sublime connexion while he lights a slim smoke. “Precisely,” Ram agrees. “And when working with subtle energy systems that are part of consciousness itself, the belief that something will not work is still a belief – one that will collapse ‘quantum’ reality into the direction of its leaning. A modern so-called sceptic will program reality to accept their version of it just as easily as a visionary – particularly one who places their hands on such highly tuned consciousness-sensitive equipment.”
“‘So called’?” Mech inclines his bearded face amid rings of lambent rainbow light.
“A post-modern sceptic is something else entirely… and any true sceptic holds neither preconceived belief nor disbelief,” the shaman informs him, “and approaches every thing or event with an open mind.” A group of runners races down the centre of the main street, following a flaming torch toward the park. “The world is malleable mindstuff that’s programmed by our beliefs – and our disbelief.”
“There are some reports that people have become ill handling the Joe Cell,” High Elf observes quizzically as an endless stream of festive partygoers parts around the inviolable island of their arcane conversation.
“There are similar problems with many of the original Orgone technologies as well,” Ramses explains. “Reich learned that the build-up of concomitant energies can be lethal – not just from the radiological effects produced by his infamous Oranur experiment, but by careless use of the basic equipment; it builds up powerful charges.”
Mech rubs his hands together. “Electrical charges?” High Elf shakes his hat as Ram’yana answers his companion’s question. “No – do you know about D.O.R.?”
Mech’s woollen beanie bobs up and down. “Deadly Orgone Radiation?”
“Aye. It can condense around the older equipment. It’s not wise to touch the metal casing of a standard Cloudbuster while it’s working; even while it channels and condenses Orgone the material substance of the apparatus accretes a concomitant anti-life charge that stays anchored to it – and can discharge into you.”
Ram’yana watches images of the reality he describes projecting into the dimensional spaces between the tripping trio, triangulated in the centre of their small concentrating circle as laughing festival-goers flow around them on the concrete footpath. “Can the Joe Cell casing be grounded?” Mech perseveres.
“It’s possible to earth the D’Or – but you can’t easily shield the cell from the matrix of belief itself; consciousness pours through everything. To do that you need to build a new matrix of aware beings who are interested enough to maintain their focus on the shared vision. That’s what’s happening - or beginning to happen - here and now in the New Millennium.”
“What about the new Orgone technology?” High Elf asks as his eyes lift to the rising moon. In answer, Ram takes his recently acquired tower crystal from his pocket and hands it to Mech, who squints at the solid state orgone accumulator. “Beeswax?” he asks while the shaman lights up a smoke and passes it to the Elf. “No - organic resin.”
“I’ve been working with beeswax,” Mech tells him. “It’s easier, with the applications I need it for.” They’re conversation is shielded by a cloud of fragrant smoke as a group of riot police passes and half a dozen pairs of dark glasses flash in their direction. They smile at the uniformed plodders and the wall of blue passes on, in search of more interesting victims or victimless proclaimed criminals. “Good idea,” Ram’yana observes.
“So do you think the Joe Cell’s worthwhile? Does it work?” asks the High Elf as he passes the spliff to his friend.
“Oh, it works all right; there’s no problem there. If you want to have a tormented life of painful disappointments and reversals, try to make it work now.” The shaman smiles at his companions as the Elf examines the tower crystal. “What do you mean?” Mech asks with a troubled expression as he exhales a ring of smoke. Streams of music intermingle in the night air, vague wisps of beats and melodies that produce an inscrutable siren-song in a combination of impenetrable percussion, out-of-phase wailings and momentary glissandos of tinkling melody.
Ram’yana accepts the returning joint. “It’s like this,” he says as colours spread and mingle in the oncoming night and waves of seemingly random impulses and emotions pass through his body-mind. “If you treat the working technology as a proof of concept there’s no problem. You can use the concept as a working model from which you can proceed. But truly proceeding further may imply dispensing with the material equipment altogether, and using the body-Temple as your apparatus. Orgone technology simply won’t be allowed to come to fruition yet,” he adds, belatedly remembering the original question.
“Not allowed?” Mech is outraged. “Why not? You mean because of the powers that be – vested interests?”
“Only partly – invested interests and corporate clowns are only the faceless masks worn by the current crop of Humanity’s punishers, levellers and straighteners. The old kings and queens and emperors were even worse… No - this is a primitive civilization of barbarians who are trained to avoid self examination.”
Ram is on a roll and the other men stand and stare as the words pour from his hirsute lips. “Without self-examination humans fall to the default setting of biological imperatives – reactive fear and the illusion of protection in the known. Such a society is not only unready for most of the new scientific concepts and technologies, it actively destroys those change-agents who are attempting to bring them to manifestation.” The Centraxian shaman prince’s companions nod their agreement and he continues after a deep draw on the circulating number.
“You may have heard the saying – ‘You don’t get steam engines until it’s steam engine time’. And I’m sorry to say it’s still steam engine time. Few notice the fact, but even nuclear reactors are just inefficient water-boiling steam engines. Almost all the functional backbone of our day-to-day technology is at least half a century old and the concepts go back at least a century more.
“If you want a lot of hassles, try to make Orgone work in such a totally controlled and backward society. Or pursue, say, cold fusion.” The High Elf’s ears prick up beneath his straw hat. “What about cold fusion?”
“It’s another example of resonant technology that’s been thoroughly sat on, one way or another.” Ram notes the loquacious effect the psychedelic water is having and he gives the talkative genie within his awakening self full rein; “Do you know what happened in the original experiment that sparked the flurry of interest - the one that quickly disappeared from the media radar and was later decried as faulty paperwork and unreproducible technique?”
Mech eyes the shaman warily. “No…”
“I have,” the High Elf assures him. “What about it?”
“You remember the original experiment - the one the authorities rushed to denounce, saying it didn’t prove cold fusion existed? There have been and endless series of conflicting reports about whether or not the process can be replicated.”
“That’s right…” High Elf tilts his hat to a passing acquaintance while the shaman continues; “The experimental flask blew a metre deep crater in the concrete floor of the lab. It worked all right; plenty of energy came from nowhere – from within the container of water itself.”
“What were they trying to do?” Mech takes the roach and examines its potential before ashing the stub on the pavement. Even as Ram’s awareness spins beneath the widely spaced mercuric streetlights and he marvels at the dizzying array of astronomical wonders available to those who dwell beyond the blinding glow of city skies, the words continue proceeding from his flapping mouth. Syllables emerge from a deeper wellspring than his conscious mind, conjured into being by the questions of his friendly interlocutors.
“The theory’s very simple. You can tune tap water or seawater to produce rare isotopes of hydrogen – deuterium and tritium – that can create what they laughably call ‘nuclear’ fusion at relatively normal temperatures; for all intents and purposes, limitless power from water.” The Elf nods while Mech’s questions continue; “And it’s possible? They did it?”
“Of course. But it’s not permitted – yet. There are many ways to derive ‘free’ energy from water. Most of them will get you buried deep in shit or concrete, my friends. But if you treat them as proofs of concept and proceed from there…”
The straw hat dips downward. “Are there any that free energy devices we can use – now, I mean?”
“Well – plenty of devices will work; the De Palma Homopolar Generator is well known, for instance, or there’s the
“There is a simple system I’ve been toying with that employs fully understood, well-known technologies that are already used all over the world. Put together, they can easily work as a free energy device in many of the places where we live,” Ram makes a sweeping gesture that takes in the hordes of people, the colourful streetscape and the steep volcanic hills glowing all around them in the vibrant moonlight. “And the system’s all water based; in the Age of Aquarius – the water bearer - we’ll be moving a lot of water around, doing the job of the natural systems we’re supplanting.
“You know about ram pumps?” The inquiring young men nod and smile at Ram’s apparent double entendre. “Well, with a ram pump you can raise water using the energy of flowing water. They’re water-powered water pumps, right? They’ll do the job; they can raise water a decent and usable height above a river with no fuel. With new generation ram pumps like the Glockermann pump, you can raise water from a flowing stream – or waste-water pipe – and put it in a dam that’s much further up the hill, or into a high raised tank. You can really make gravity work for you. It’s possible to do the same with seawater using wave powered pumps.”
The Centraxian prince continues before Mech can interject, heading off his next inquiry with psychedelically enhanced telepathic precision. “Solar power’s great, but it’s dirty to manufacture and there’s one major hole in the system – storage. Suitable batteries are very expensive, most are very dirty and they don’t last more than a few years.” Ram’s fellow trippers nod knowingly and he continues.
“With real Aquarian Age water power the dam or tank is the battery. You can run the water down from the storage point through a twelve millimetre hose and into a generator - like a Pelton wheel, for instance; they’re available on the next hill over there at the Rainbow Power Company…” He points through the material artifice of the town hall to the nearby solar powered alternative factory. “…and with a nine metre fall you have twelve volt power for as long as the tap’s turned on or the stream keeps running.
“With a sixty metre fall you can generate plenty of power at 120 or 240 volts – current is current - and it takes an awfully long time to drain a dam through a half-inch hose, particularly one that’s being replenished 24/7. And it rains – sometimes.” He finally pauses for breath. “You see how simple this is?” His small audience nods in unison again. “Most of our concepts of electricity and even our terminology – like valves, impedance and current itself – are derived from our understanding of the channelling of water, so there’s a certain conceptual resonance between the two.
“Now here’s the beautiful part; you can pass the water from the holding tank or dam, send it through the power generating wheel and then return it to the source stream above the point from which you took it. Or you can use it to water the garden or orchard first. You see? You get the electricity for free and the environment is enhanced – not drained, disturbed or destroyed!
“This is a perfect illustration of how ‘free energy’ is possible. And not only does it work as a proof of concept, but it’s perfectly safe to work with and your life won’t be destroyed in the process.” A pair of steroidal horses trots by, eyeing their group with penetrating equine eyes while their riders discuss a reality TV program.
“That’s so simple,” the High Elf declares. The tide turns and a space opens up around them and slowly closes as a throng converges on the hall from another direction. “Do you want to see the band?” he asks. Ram and Mech instantly agree, and the men allow themselves to be swept inside by the human wave.
“Of course,” Ram’yana continues as they enter the threshold, “there is the problem of cutting up a living liquid crystal and reassembling it again…”
A true story
- R.A.
“I don’t want to be a prince. A lot of people are jealous of princes.”
Images - author's
Further True Tales of the prince of Centraxis -
Further true tales from the Prince of Centraxis -
Psychedelic Water Part 1 - Fractal Rainbow
Psychedelic Water Part 2 - What Thou Wilt
Psychedelic Water Part 3 - Trancefixed
Psychedelic Water Part 4 - Feral Dolphin
Psychedelic Water Part 5 - Angelic Tantra
Psychedelic Water Part 6 - Dreads Unlocked
Psychedelic Water Part 7 - Fresh Flesh, Old Bones
Psychedelic Water 8 - Predawn of Awareness
Psychedelic Water 9 - Merry Moot
Psychedelic Water 10 -Wandering Orgone Wand
Psychedelic Water 11 - Water Power
The Red Pill - Psychedelic Water 12
Mothership Crew - Psychedelic Water 13
Amber Flames - Psychedelic Water 14
Wills Writ on Waves - Psychedelic Water 15
Alternative Universe - Psychedelic Water 16
More True Tales of the Prince of Centraxis…
Adder Ladies and the Dawn of Ra Part 1 - Doves and Serpents
The Shaman of Centraxis Part 1 - The Whole is Greater
Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll Part 1
For further edification see –
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
(These two sites have been closed to this, their author, by Today.com – who continue to make an earn from them despite deeming them unsuitable - Enlightenment Today and Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )
This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author - and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard or software copies! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment! Thanks for reading this far…
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana