Wills Writ on Waves
Psychedelic Water 15
‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…’ Recorded music blared from the sound system as the reggae band cleared the stage for another act. “A fitting answer to a daunting question,” the shaman observed. “Synchronicity explains my actions; and to quote the Desiderata, ‘With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams…’” He gestured through the open door at the moonlit subtropical landscape outside the hall, “‘…it’s still a beautiful world’.”
“Be cheerful…’”Amber smiled up at him as she supplied the next line. “But the ending is insipid; ‘Strive to be happy’ is as bad as try to be happy. ‘Be cheerful’ would have been a better place to finish – if we are discussing ‘desirable things’.” She spun around to take in the decorations and accoutrements of the cavernous hall; the shaman peered up at the rectangular glass slot leading to the projection room. “One of my old school mottos was even worse,” he said, observing the heraldic badge of his school hovering behind his eyes. “It was ‘Strive to Serve’.” Ram’yana was hoping to spy Cagliostro’s face at the control panel in the projection room, but the bearded magician could see no sign of the equally hirsute musician. “I always preferred my other schools’ mottos – they were both ‘Truth and Honour’, though one was in Latin; ‘Veritate et Virtute’…”
“In acid veritas?” Amber laughed a musical cascade that invited the tripping hippy to share her mirth. “Perhaps you feel you have unfinished business here,” she mused as he grinned at her accurate jest. “Something that is calling to your heart.”
‘Feeling good was good enough for me…’ The shaman inclined an eyebrow toward the emotive voice of the dead woman who was still pouring her heart out through the speakers. “Something is always calling to my heart,” he admitted. Ram’s mind was swimming to and fro in a multitude of currents, and he centred his spinning perceptions at the locus of his body; he was standing in a bend of the river at the foot of the low hill on which the town was perched, and damp forested lowlands stretched into the distance. The concrete, steel and wood of the old factory became a transparent apparition and its temporal solidity faded before the living landscape, which glowed within a vibrant ultraviolet sheen. He was standing in a circular space, an open glade that preceded the factory’s construction. The Bush Theatre had been planted appropriately, on a small peaceful spot in a tumultuous landscape infused with potently sacred energies, near to the heart of a great primordial volcano.
“Looks like we’ve arrived during the break,” the shaman observed as he turned to the slender woman. Amber was staring at the psychedelically enhanced natural scenes on the wall-high screen, peering at scenes of fluttering galahs and diving raptors through the Bush Theatre’s day-glow décor. “Let’s wait by the fire.” Before he’d finished uttering the suggestion she turned toward the exit and tugged him outside; their fingers had been tangled together since they reached the entrance. “We slip between fires in darkness - travellers passing between isolated oases,” the enigmatic woman remarked over her shoulder as she reached the head of the stairs.
A trio of fires was burning by the steep creekbank, arrayed along the length of the concrete strip that surrounded the old Bush Factory. Amber tugged the long-haired hippy to a vacant lounge beside the moonlit waterway, while a noisesome stream of traffic clattered across the narrow wooden bridge nearby, and clunked uphill toward the town. As the stoned couple sank into soft upholstery, a young man dressed in cutaway denims threw a thick branch into the forty-four gallon drum and a flurry of sparks shot up toward the Milky Way. A score of people were arrayed around the flaming bin, talking and chilling and listening to a street performer. Judging by his rolling eyes and staggering swagger, the man in the centre of the impromptu proscenium stage was more than half way to another world.
“Enlightenment starts the same way for everyone - as an ongoing weaning process…” The gaily costumed orator was replying to a question that the shaman hadn’t quite heard. His colourful costume was frayed to ragged streamers at ankles and wrists and he sported a long plaited beard that fell halfway to his waist from beneath a surprisingly prominent chin; the rest of his bared face was clenched beneath a blonde mop of lanky thin dreadlocks. He was obviously on a roll, easily managing to hold the attention of half the tripped-out partygoers - who warmed their chilled-out bodies around leaping flames beside the cool pooling stream. His attentive audience was arranged in a cockeyed circle around the fire, which blazed out of all proportion to the metal bin that ostensibly contained it.
“Potty training and titty weaning are left incomplete in all these barbaric post-flood civilizations.” The thespian’s eloquent features displayed a disparaging expression and his voice bore the tone of a sneering patrician. “Modern humans fail to carry these simple disciplines through to their natural conclusions,” he continued while absently stroking his dreadlocks. “Children can easily learn how to control all their bodily functions, from heart rate and blood pressure to brain rhythms – if they are shown how. Advanced yoga is simply extended potty training.”
“What about me?” A middle-aged woman shouted as she waved her arm above her head, a teacher’s pet holding one hand up in a classroom as she beamed at the strangely attired authority figure – who smiled at her eagerness through leaping flames. “I’m just a big kid – is it too late to learn how to go properly?” Another woman yelled out before the speaker could reply; “You’re already up way past your bed-time, Blossom!” She turned toward the speaker; “Tell her how to come properly instead!” The laughing crowd was obviously fully engaged in the entertainment that the barefoot preacher had brought to the long intermission. Their eyes glittered in the firelight as they smoked and drank coffee, waiting for the next act to begin within.
Amber leant her head against Ram’s shoulder as they watched the performance in blissed-out silence; their fingers twirled together as his palm settled on her bare thigh, and he wondered once more how her blood could possibly be so feverishly hot. The speaker raised his arms toward the rising moon. “It’s never too late to transmigrate; the time for open minds is always here, ’fore the chime of the bell that all must hear.”
The poet’s rhyme resounded from the high wall and scattered fruit bats from the nearby trees. His elongated face twisted down toward the teacher’s pet while his palms stroked pale moonbeams; “Childhood’s innocence can guarantee an unsullied outcome, but for adults success is a little less certain.” He swung towards the questioner and his hands sprayed imaginary moonlight across her beaming face. “Blessed be those who make the crossing in the here and now. The younger you start the better…”
“How young?” the beaming woman asked and the preacher turned to stare into the flames as he stroked his braided beard. “You’ll never be younger than you are right now,” he laughed into the fire. “I’ve said enough… it’s best to beware the innocent, and avoid encouraging flower children to examine their souls, minds and bodies in today’s fearful, superstition-riddled barbaric societies,” he rumbled. “Such talk is regarded as blasphemous heresy. Telling children to learn about their natural selves is all too often seen as a prelude to mind control or pedophilia.” His voice and features suddenly shifted into a caricature of a twisted cripple as he swung around the moonlit proscenium. “And I certainly hope there aren’t any other rock spiders around here! Gather round, kiddies, gather round – uncle Jim’s got something to show and tell!”
“That’d be right,” a young neo-punk cried out. “Over here, you old tart.” The middle-aged orator glared over the youth’s buzz cut at a puzzled bunch of new arrivals. “You’re not my type,” he jeered. “I only go out with genuine hermaphrodites, like your friend standing inside, um, behind you – but I could teach you a thing or two, you young whip snapper!” He reared back to his full height as he readopted his earlier persona. “Then again, you know what they say about teachers…”
“No?” A stoned teenager yelled up from the depths of a collapsing lounge chair. “What? That they’re all loudmouthed fakers and takers who ought to stick to torturing insects instead of programming kids’ brains with shit?” He sank back into the derelict seat - which had been pulled up to the fireside by the gurgling little river along with a jumble of other furnishings – and almost disappeared within the sagging cushions as his backside connected with the concrete below.
The performer’s answer was poised on the tip of his tongue; “‘Those who can, do…’” The orator began the quote with a thoughtful smile and allowed the conclusion to remain unspoken. “But the childish dolt is essentially correct. The all-important essential role of teaching humans about their own bodies is left to sports teachers – or power-mad, death-fearing, moronic mumbling preachers and idiotic religious dogmatists instead – literal pedophiles and child molesters who warp children’s minds with hate and fear and worse.” He turned his back to the flames and fluffed out his dreads while he spoke to the moon. “This is a world of productive wage-slave humanoid insects and it has ways of making you not talk. Or think. Or question. Or opt out of a toxic existence in a regimented hive.” He spun around and spat into the fire. “Crazy little planet, huh?”
Amber squeezed her companion’s arm. “Do you think she’ll be all right?” He turned to face her concerned expression while the fire crackled and water gurgled and braying laughter bubbled in the wake of the performer’s soliloquy. “Right as rain, probably,” he replied. They both glanced up at the moon and simultaneously recalled the adrenaline-pumping events of the elongating night. “At least she has someone to keep an eye on her,” he added.
“A friend, you mean,” Amber said as her hand moved up his arm. “A lover,” Ram’yana replied. She glanced up at the shaman when he turned to face her; twin moons and glittering lights shone from the glimmering surfaces of her eyes, floating above the fire-bright retinas that glistered and shone in arcing rays of passing headlights. Rainbows circled her face as a shooting star bisected the sky. “A lucky girl. But when her friend sprang up from nowhere behind us…” The Asiatic beauty shuddered through her smile as they simultaneously recalled the surprising moment...
Cedar rushes up behind them and reaches for Ram’s arm, grappling with his elbow beneath the velvet cloak. The tripping mage and oriental woman pause arm in arm, breathing twin sighs of relief when they spin around and recognise the figure running up to them in the darkness. Amber settles more snugly beneath the shaman’s arm while the frantic girl claws at his other hand, pulling him toward her. “Hurry!” she hisses. “It’s Angie – Angel. She’s just up here – come on!”
Amber’s arm tightens around Ram’s waist as the shaman takes a step toward the panicky young blonde. Cedar tugs at his elbow while her wide eyes glitter in the faint glow of a distant streetlight; her model-perfect features brim over with suppressed rage, suffused and combining with a desperate pleading. Brightly coloured snakes swarm across her face, and her fine muscles twitch and churn in the wake of their tubular delineaments. Subtle serpents follow the ley-lines of the girl’s meridians, outlining her emotions in the evanescent darkness, eloquent in their flaring revelation of her emotions. “She’s unconscious,” Cedar snarls, and her terror finally penetrates the tripping man’s half-stunned funk. His inner landscape is filled by a disturbing image of the teenage feral Angel sinking out of her depth in a pool of hungry human sharks. “And I can’t get them to… they won’t piss off…”
Amber holds the shaman rooted to the spot on the concrete footpath while Cedar tugs at his other arm. “They’re a pack of bastards! Please…” He glances at the foreign woman and shrugs; her face is a gilded shield and her eyes blaze with impenetrable intensity. Her hand slides to his arm and fingers slip down to entwine with his as they step back toward the pooling darkness. “We have to hurry,” the blonde girl urges as they begin to follow. She scampers back up the hill to the shadowy tree-covered parkland and passes through a gap in the low wire fence that surrounds the old schoolyard. “Over here…”
They pursue Cedar’s glowing silhouette and step from the dimly lit street, to pass between a clutch of darkened wooden buildings. The girl jogs ahead, leading the way into abyssal shadows beneath the high moonlit canopy. A thin moan rises from the tenebrous night; deep growling murmurs are followed by a brief burst of laughter that erupts above the surrounding echoes of distant merriment and distorted music to guide them to their goal.
Cedar’s form is outlined by a bright flash of light as a camera illuminates a lurid landscape. Blinding afterimages fill Ram’s vision with fluorescing confusion as the girl stops short of a dimly lit cluster of bodies. The shaman pauses in his headlong rush while demons twist into Devas and glowing waves roll across the sky above, to resolve and dissolve into wavering billows of leafy branches that frame an atavistic scene. Glistening skins and bulging lumps of straining musculature are huddled in a semi-naked scrum in the darkest section of the small park, a barely decipherable alphabet of bodies spelling out the oblivious.
Amber glides up beside him when Cedar freezes and stares in dismay at the stark tableau, as a petite dreadlocked Angel groans in the midst of a disturbingly arousing gangbang. So many bodies are swarming around Cedar’s naked little friend that the younger girl is almost invisible, pressed beneath and between the silhouettes that surround her - centred amid a mass of frenzied fucking flesh as her slim form is manhandled back and forth, up and down.
“Wait,” Amber advises her companions, and Cedar brushes hair extensions from her eyes and goggles at the scene while the oriental woman’s slender fingers interlock with Ram’s. He follows her advice; when he attempts to focus on the shadowy hummock of entwining spectral bodies, his vision dances with swirling phosphorescent shapes that transform into an interlinked mass of bestial and nonhuman forms. “Do something!” Cedar gasps into his face while he deciphers the living hieroglyphics of the clustered pale shapes, tangled midst dim outlines of bushes, tree trunks, lilies and ferns. When Angel’s small, nude, pallid feminine shape is entirely eclipsed by a group of half-clad and much larger silhouettes the shaman takes a step forward. “No.” Amber’s quiet tone is as insistent as her grip on his wrist. “Not yet… wait for the right moment…”
Cedar glares at the other woman and rounds on the shadowy group. “Stop it!” she yells, but her cry is lost in a sudden agglomeration of sly laughter. As Ram’s eyes resume functioning on something approaching a normal level the camera flashes again, but this time the light is directed away from his face. He recognises some of the feral grrl’s admirers or assailants; considering the brazen nature of Angel’s earlier erotic public performance, it’s still hard to be certain whether she’s a willing participant in this impromptu follow-up orgy.
The feral teen is laid out on her back, raised above the ground on a pair of inverted plastic tubs. He can barely see the young girl’s body, but her flanks glisten whitely between the blinding flashes, glowing in dappled moonlight and the reflected sheen of distant streetlights. Shadowy forms almost completely surround her, and occasional actinic flashes illuminate the unnerving scene, rendering the undulating semi-naked bodies into stark staccato images that simultaneously arouse, entrance and disturb the swimming mind of the tripping hippy.
He’s certain that the girl who’s writhing and moaning at the locus of manifold attentive hands and loins is the dreaded Angel who shared the darkness with him through the previous psychedelic night. Aside from the fact he’s known the grrl intimately, it’s easy to see the glittering body piercings and dark streaks of mud that mar her sleek skin when the camera illuminates her splayed limbs, betraying her identity. Her legs are held wide by two garishly clad women while a tattooed older man works his length between her thighs; Angel’s arms hang from the makeshift altar and her face is obscured as her head lolls backward to meet the slow thrusts of a fifth man’s groin.
A couple of groping pairs of hands belong to two young men that the bearded shaman recognises from the previous night; they’d enticed Angel to leave the fading Star Earth tribal doof in the wee hours around dawn, offering to trade party drugs for sex with the inebriated teenage Goth. She’d climbed into the young men’s panel van after an all-night lovemaking session under the moon and stars with Ram’yana – and now the tourists squeeze the wild grrl’s beringed breasts and grope her naked hairless body, while a bunch of eager strangers holds her down and fills her from both ends in a relentless team effort.
Angel’s pretty face is obscured by a rocking pair of hips as she lays with legs asplay and arms akimbo, while her admirers avail themselves of every inch of her small receptive body. Her enticing form is spread like a feast, stretched out and pressed down across the hard plastic coolers. Sweaty males thrust their lust into the dreadlocked little pixie’s body as her legs are lofted high by the leather-clad female revellers, who goad the men on with raunchy encouragements.
Cedar pulls at Ram’s elbow as she stares at the dimly lit orgy. “Angie,” she breathes, and turns toward the bearded hippy. She’d watched him make love with her friend through the previous night, and had even joined in – and now they stand by while a far less wholesome scene unfolds before them like the cutting-room rejects of a tawdry x-rated film; a menagerie that despoils the bright memory of their spontaneous ménage. Cedar’s eyes glisten with saline distress as she squeezes his elbow. Her thoughts are a tumbling rush pouring through his mindscape, articulated by squirming motions that display each distraught thought that plays through her highly strung awareness. As her nails burrow into his arm, the shaman nods down into the young woman’s upraised face and peers over her carefully coiffed head at the vexing scene.
Angel’s barely ripe young body is being ridden more roughly, mounted and impaled with all the desperate fury of unrequited mass desire. The orgiastic revellers are caught up in an ever-intensifying feedback loop of mutually intoxicating arousal, shared by the entire pack of laughing strangers who manhandle the elfin girl like a captive young animal. “She’s too far gone…” Cedar’s voice catches in her throat. “I can tell…” The shaman watches Angel’s wide-open, long-lashed eyes flutter closed in the glare of another flash of light and sees that she’s lost in drug-fucked lust. Her tongue laps at the come-smeared cock which stretches her taut little mouth; the softening flesh is swiftly replaced by a fresh harder specimen as a pair of bunched buttocks occludes her beautiful face. “We have to get her out of here!” Cedar hisses. When the camera next flashes, the tripping shaman notices a handful of dark figures observing the gangbang from the shadows.
“That girl is not really conscious,” Amber declares with a quiet assurance. Her careful articulation seems out of place in such a scene of al fresco debauchery. “She is so drunk and drugged she might well be asleep.” Her hand is a ball of flame within his palm, and as she leans against the shaman her hip burns a swathe across his thigh as his erection swells within his trousers. “She cannot know what is happening…” As if to deny the woman’s accusation, Angel’s moans join the general hubbub and her hands begin to grope around, to catch and stroke the bodies which surround her.
The blindness that follows each illuminating flash is an annoyingly impediment to Ram’s hallucinatory vision as he peers through thick knots of blackness into dayglow distortions. He wants to be certain Amber is correct – despite all signs to the contrary - before he blunders into the orgy and attempts to break it up. He squints through the shadows at what appears to be nothing more than an extension of the earlier public gangbang – the same ongoing lusty group grope that began with the young feral couple’s exhibitionist fucking in front of the stage. He notices that Angel’s skinny young body is flopping like a rag doll in the hands of the uncaring and semi-abusive strangers, and becomes filled with a complex weave of raging emotions as he realises Amber is correct; She’s barely conscious...
Cedar takes a step forward. “Stop, you bastards!” The tattooed man steps backward, and sprays of white goo arc onto Angel’s slim belly as he retreats from her wide-spread thighs and staggers into shadow. The blonde surfies - whose attentive manhandling had earlier been encouraged by Angel’s feral boyfriend, during the wild young couple’s hardcore public performance – glance toward the yelling girl and squint into another bright flash of light that imprints their sneering expressions into the palimpsest of memory. “Fuck off,” one of the surfers calls back. They roll the semi-conscious naked teenager over onto her belly and the other man’s cock slips from her lips as they both give Cedar the finger.
“Fuck you!” Cedar shrieks while they press Angel’s body athwart the conjoined surfaces of the bare plastic oblongs. Her cheek is distorted as her face presses against the smooth makeshift table, and a silver ring digs into the smooth skin of her face. Cedar quivers with anger and angst, but she makes no move to stop them. Is she simply jealous? Ram wonders. Am I jealous? Do I want to be part of… this? The blonde men’s hard white cocks poke against the gasping grrl’s dirt-smeared skin while squeezing fingers spread muddy trails along her buttocks. Gliding feminine hands spread her legs wide to fold her knees astride the eskies, as the feral Angel recovers her breath and groans with inarticulate passion – or with pain, distress, or objection; under the circumstances, it’s exceedingly hard to tell. All of that, and more, the shaman tells himself as he decides to intervene.
Amber holds Ram’yana back when he begins to lurch forward. She effortlessly twists him all the way around, with a hand squeezing each of his wrists with a burning grip. “Not yet,” she says as he turns toward her, and a flaming aura mantles her head and shoulders with a layered filigree of multicoloured dancing tongues of flame, while a pack of dogs bays at the moon. Her eyes are twin pools of glimmering flame and her tongue is a glistening serpentine eel swimming inside the toothy cage of her mouth. “In a moment.” He can’t bring himself to resist the intensity of the woman’s compelling will, and she holds him fixed to the spot with a steely twinned grasp; yet he’s stricken with an undeniable empathic need to protect the helpless wanton waif from her abusers – and from her own purblind self.
Surely she wants me to stop them… He suppresses a surge of jealous rage, which he’s disinclined to examine or name. To stop them from… is she jealous? Amber holds his psychedelically shimmering gaze with her implacable glare. He puzzles at the oriental woman’s strange actions while the group of savagely thrusting men grunt their desire into the recumbent rocking body of the beautiful feral teenager. Amber’s eyes pin him to the spot and cartwheel at the centre of his hallucinating vision. She can’t be jealous of us… how could she know? Amber’s eyes flicker to the rapacious orgy and her teeth align into a gleaming semblance of a snarl as her lips silently curl and flex. Could she actually be worried I’ll be hurt? So concerned for me that she’d let Angel be raped?
Cedar tugs at his sleeve. “Stop them,” she insists. “It’s gotten out of hand…” Ram’yana stares into the blazing depths of the Asian woman, who grips his wrists with a pair of blazing living bracelets. She twists the hippy to one side, an instant before the bushes rustle apart behind his back.
A huge hand reaches out of the shadows and grabs Cedar by her upper arm, completely encircling the slender girl’s limb while a torch shines directly into her red-rimmed blue eyes. “No stoppin’ ’em now,” a gruff voice growls. “No point tryin’.” A pot-bellied and heavily tattooed bikie – who bears a huge black bib of a beard and sports a marbled red scarf round his smoothly shaven scalp, lending his head the appearance of a trepanned skull - grins down at the blinking girl. He releases her arm and plays the flashlight beam up and down her fine young body.
“’Less’n yer want t’ join in with the other boys ’n’ girls,” another large figure booms from the shadows behind him. “Nuh? Then wait yer fuckin’ turn.” Cedar splutters and her neck tilts back as she glares up at the strangers; she’s obviously more than a little drunk, and her pupils are dilated by substances that overwhelm the effects of the torchlight; her eyes are deep black pools as she squints into the brilliance. “She’s my friend!” she cries in a far less confident tone. Her voice descends into a tremulous plea; “Leave her alone… please…”
“Fat chance,” the bearded bikie responds in a mixture of growl and chuckle as he aims the bright torch at the huddle of bodies. “She’s gettin’ her rocks off - see?” The two unfamiliar young women in brief leather Goth garb and matching spiky hairdos spread Angel’s legs wide as her breasts mash into the plastic altar. They grip her by her slender ankles and stroke the lengths of her mud-caked, sperm-spattered thighs, which glisten wetly in the bright flashlight beam. The feral grrl’s cheek slides along the crate as her studded tongue laps at thin air.
Ram’yana tugs against Amber’s restraining grip when one of the blonde surfers squirms beneath the dreadlocked grrl. He remembers seeing the surfies carry Angel off with the blessing of her feral boyfriend Raven, after their very public coupling. Now the naked youth kisses Angel’s eyelids and ring-pierced gaping lips while he holds her unresisting little frame above him by her come-smeared breasts. Raven’s associate reaches down between her thighs to slip his hardness inside Angel’s hairless come-lubed loins, and begins jerking inside her unresponsive little body while he sucks on her silver-pierced mouth.
The Goth girls lean close for a clearer view as they kiss each other and hold Angel’s rocking body in place athwart the surfer’s slim rampaging shaft. Two more cameras begin flashing away while the young man squeezes the grrl’s dirt-smeared buttocks apart with his broad square hands, revealing her impalement to the voyeuristic small crowd. Ram’yana recognises one of the photographers who captures the flagrant moment – the moustachioed young man who’d earlier called him ‘dude’, in the chai tent during the enduringly psychedelic night.
The surfer’s blonde companion steps between the grinning young Goth women, nudging them apart with his tanned bony hips as he pulls Angel’s head upward by her bone-adorned dreads. He ponies up to the unmoving teen as he prepares to invade her puckered tightness, and his friend arches upward to keep kissing the grrl’s gaping mouth while he jams his slim cock up between her hairless pink labia.
When the torchlight shines on the dreadlocked feral’s pale face, it’s obvious the grrl is semi-conscious at best. Her eyes are closed and her mouth lolls open, yet her fingers are clenched halfway around the erections of the two young men who’d whisked her away in the twilight of the previous morning. The tourists stand on either side of the sandwiched grrl with their loins poking against her sticky flesh; her friends watch wordlessly as Angel slides the men’s lengths along her smooth skin until their hard little cocks prod the sides of her breasts. She handles the tourists’ short lengths with absent-minded torpid grasps while the surfers pound into her from front and rear, below and above. They begin to ride her outwardly unresponsive body in tandem, a robotic two-stroke engine pistoning into the diminutive Angel’s well-oiled young belly from both directions at once. She grunts in time with their relentless movements, filling the glade with inarticulate sounds which slowly rise in pitch from guttural groans to a high-pitched staccato panting.
“See?” the bikie says as he flicks off the torch. “She’s into it, okay? I don’t hear no complaints! Now fuck off.” He steps back into bushes where his friend sniggers in the shadows, and Ram’yana takes advantage of the respite to lead the young women to the other side of the small clearing. Amber seems content to follow in tow and Cedar is too stunned to object as they pass between an assemblage of indistinct silhouettes and the silent lightning of flashing cameras. The sounds of slapping flesh mingle with dissonant distant music and Cedar trembles within the curl of Ram’s arm as it gently winds about her waist; she leans her shoulder into his armpit as her sigh stretches halfway toward sobbing. They slip around the sweaty pack and pass into the shadows beneath an overarching tree, almost an arm’s length from Angel’s curling toes.
The long-taloned fingers of the slightly older pair of black-lipped Goth grrls slide up Angel’s thighs, to grasp her slippery labia and stretch her petals open. They spread the feral teen wider for the blonde man’s fast plunges, while his friend pounds his slim length between the clenching mounds of her parted buttocks. He reams the elfin teen with rapid thrusts, and her lithe body rocks wildly while he pulls her head upward and back by her dreadlocks; her torso curves sidewise under the pressure of his insistent pulling until her profile is alternately revealed and concealed between sweaty crowding bodies. Angel’s head dangles from the surfer’s fist as her jaw drops open, and only a few inches of her slim legs and slender body are visible between grasping hands and thrusting buttocks.
As a low moan escapes Angel’s parted lips a stranger steps up to avail himself of her ring-pierced gaping mouth. A short balding man flops a semi-hard prick from his unzipped fly and squeezes it between her slightly swollen lips. He grasps the grrl’s head in his hands and begins fucking her face while the surfers ride her spreadeagled frame with mounting waves of lusty counterpoint thrusts.
Barely perceived figures jerk off in the shadows while the several active players grope and fondle the teenage pixie’s utterly vulnerable and thoroughly invaded little body. All three men pound away inside the tight crannies of her supine flesh while the raunchily outfitted grrls kiss her thighs and caress her cock-stretched membranes. Angel’s hands loosely grasp the tourists’ thick erections as their hips move with jerky movements and their palms slide around her slippery skin. Her body bucks with reactive undulations - vague motions that betray only the barest degree of active participation and awareness as she’s manhandled like a piece of meat and screwed like an unresisting living fuck doll. “Is she awake?” Amber whispers.
Gasping flurries of breathy moans grow louder as the male animals work themselves towards release inside the mud-smeared teenage girl. The mass of bodies revealed by the flashing lights - and glowing in the preternatural gloaming bestowed by the LSD - are interlinked organs of a single massed creature. Sliding sheaths of muscle and hypersensitive lubricious membranes are unified by the siren-songs of unexamined desires, singing the same primordial refrain though all their mingling nerves, sliding flesh, flexing bones and the resounding pounding of their blood.
“Do something,” Cedar hisses and her fingernails dig into Ram’s arm as they take shelter beneath the overarching tree. The shaman feels surprisingly calm as he observes his mind running through a rat-maze of possibilities. He watches Amber watching Cedar watching him watching Angel from a remotely distant yet dispassionately involved vantage.
“Soon,” the Asiatic woman breathes. The world glows with a subtle inner radiance that outlines the delineaments of every material shape and insubstantial shade, suffusing all the living landform with a swimming sea of pulsing, interpenetrating light. When the shaman turns the blazing gaze of his awareness directly upon any individual form or feature it disappears from view, darkened by the light of his concentrated expectation. He tries to grasp the world within the purview of his peripheral vision, while psychedelic patterns throb in time with his rapidly beating heart.
Now… He can’t be certain whether Amber says the word aloud. A light dawns and shines on the close frond-fringed horizon, at the same moment that a figurative light bulb ignites over Ram’s long-haired head. A torchlight approaches from the street and washes across the knot of sweaty bodies before its bright beam pans away through the darkness. Before his second-guessing monkey mind can react and impede him, Ram’yana yells out with as much forceful anxiety as he can muster; “It’sa fuckin’ cops!” He raises his voice half an octave; “Quick!” he cries from the shadows in a convincing ocker accent, “We gotta split! Now!” The approaching torch beam obligingly fixes on the suddenly immobilised orgy, blinding the rapine group right on cue as they’re fixed in its brilliant glow; rutting rabbits caught unawares by a swiftly approaching headlight.
A lightning-swift adrenaline rush spreads through the clustered bodies and creates an instantaneous stampede. Angel’s admirers literally drop her like a hot potato and scurry to retrieve their belongings while the bushes are filled with the sounds of rapid departures. The Goth girls release Angel’s legs, unceremoniously dropping her knees into the dirt as they hightail toward the populous market ground. The men’s wide eyes flash and roll as they pull out of the floppy feral’s tight juice-slicked orifices and step away from her absently grasping hands; she falls into an unmoving heap on top of the blonde surfie, momentarily pinning him beneath her slim slimy body. He pushes her pale unmoving form off his unrequitedly hard cock, reaching for his clothes even as he slides from her slick hairless loins. The feral grrl flops off his body and falls onto her side in the dirt while he scrambles to his feet, pulling up his shorts as he hops into the deeper shadows.
The shaman had somehow known that the stupid little subterfuge would work; it had to. But as Amber squeezes his arm and Cedar squeals in surprise, he wonders if it really is the cops whose approaching torchlight blinds them and fills his vision with scintillating concentric rings of dancing fairies and flying winged eyeballs. He sighs when the torchbearer arrives at the grimy scene and aims the light at her sandalled feet. “Can you point me to the toilets?” A tall woman stares goggle-eyed at the trio of Angel’s rescuers as she leans on the shoulder of her equally inebriated girlfriend. “What’s been going on here?”
Eerily dappled headlight beams pan across the bush-lined road. Cars and vans perform a ballet of u-turns ahead of the strolling couple, avoiding the flashing lights of a police roadblock on the way out of town. Amber’s radiantly hot hand steals downward to cup Ram’s buttock and the magician is gladdened by the fact that the uncompromising situation they’ve just left behind hasn’t dampened her enthusiasm. He’s pleasantly surprised by the resilience of the umber-skinned woman’s libido; And I thought those rude yobbos might put her off... His hipbone settles into Amber’s slim waistline as they saunter down the unlit hill.
Groups of cheery festival-goers laugh and yell as the cloaked couple wend their way down to the starlit wooden slabs of the old bridge, which crosses the river beside the legendary Bush Theatre. They keep well to one side of the shaky structure, leaning against the scarred wooden rail as a handful of sedans and utes clatter across the narrow juddering timberwork.
When they approach the potholed driveway leading to the remodelled venue and theatre, Amber tugs at Ram’s sleeve and beckons him back into the shadows. “It looks like they have not started yet,” she observes with a nod toward a small multitude, standing around blazing bins outside the big old factory building. “Shall we do something else first?” He gives a swift nod in reply - glad to avoid the nearby roadblock and milling audience alike - and follows when the limber woman ducks across the road and makes her way down a steep grassy bank toward the gurgling river.
She stops beside rocks which emboss the dark bank with gleaming glimmers of smooth unmoving wetness, still and serene amid the shimmering dapple of standing waves on the moonlit liquid crystal surface. Ram glides toward the blazing orange beacon of Amber’s silk dress, glowing like a tongue of flame in the cool fluid darkness. Her face shines more brightly than the flare of her dayglow silk, and her eyes are bright burning coals in the charged field of night. The newly met couple cuddle beneath a sheltering canopy of glistening young rainforest trees and exotic shrubby weeds, inhaling each other’s breath with the green-flavoured textures of the riverbank.
Amber turns to face the bearded shaman, standing on bare tippee-toes; she left her sandals behind in the Mothership when they departed the fractious gathering of drunken hoons. Her long narrow fingers tangle in Ram’s hair while she draws his face down toward hers. He inhales her fragrant breath as their lips meet; she exhales into his lungs before drawing the warm air back, emptying him with a startlingly powerful suction while kneading his neck and stroking his throat with her long, sharp fingernails.
Amber’s tongue licks forth through their joined open lips to coil and wrap round his, almost filling his mouth. The small thimble of her nipple hardens through the tight silk sheath of her dress as her breast melds firmly into his cupped hand. Ram’s free arm draws the slender woman up off her feet as he pulls her closer; her slender acrobatic body is almost weightless in his entranced grasp. She twines her slender knees and calves round the wiry bushman’s slim yet athletic legs, before one of her long strong limbs enwraps his waist and locks around his midriff. Amber thrusts her groin against his hardening erection and he swelters in the radiated heat of her blazing inner cauldron. They rock together slowly, inevitably, mouth to mouth with eyes wide open, ten feet from a passing crowd milling on the roadway above. Geometric star patterns rotate around every bright reflection and glimmer of light - distracting the shaman with intricate stories that unfold into codified quasi-Islamic designs - while they kiss and cuddle in the dappled moonlight.
Their bodies press closer and he strokes her feline body while all her naked limbs enfold him in the moonlight. They kiss and cuddle sans the protective concealment of Ram’s mantling velvet cloak, which he’d earlier draped around Angel’s nude body, before they’d left the semiconscious and thoroughly blown out panting grrl in Cedar’s capable hands. When Ram’yana had deposited the feral grrl’s sticky little frame in the back of the blonde woman’s van, Angel was still wrapped in his large robe. “See you later on,” Cedar had said, and he’d left it at that.
The cool night air washes over their semi-exposed skins as Amber’s ineradicable heat flows into Ram’s flesh from her feverish bloodstream. Is it the trip? he wonders, Or is she actually this hot? He can feel the effect of the hash-laced yumball, adding a subtle frisson of isomerised cannabinols to the long-lasting LSD trip. As Amber presses her groin against his cloth-harnessed hardness and her tongue explores his mouth, he wonders how the much larger dose of hashish she’s eaten is affecting the inexperienced woman. She knows what she’s doing… he tells himself, and their movements become less impulsive as they settle into a mutually mesmerised reverie of bliss.
The stoned couple stare into each other’s souls until their eyes mesh and consciousnesses meld, and they both see one Eye looking back at itself. The lovers kiss and hug, entwined like paired vines while their soft surfaces and permeable minds meld into a harmonious whole - when I and I and two in one become all, and their interconnected beings stand wrapped and rapt in the blending grace of Tantric timelessness.
The Centraxian shaman feels a subtle shifting of the slender feline female’s energies and they slowly disengage with a single will. They kiss, lick and caress beneath the moon and stars, as a gaily painted bus clatters across the old wooden bridge and honks an antique horn. Amber drops from his body and crouches on the riverbank with a single fluid motion. She looks over her shoulder before cupping her palms and filling them with water from the polluted pool - into which half of Nimbin’s streets and poorly plumbed houses drain their various chemical and organic wastes and toxins. “Uh… I wouldn’t…” Ram begins as her dilated orange eyes snap up at him, mirroring twinned half moons on their unmoving liquid surfaces. She throws the water across his bare feet and refills her cupped hands before springing upright, holding the dripping fleshy chalice before his face. “I have to leave,” she announces while he gazes into the reflection of her moonlit face in the slowly draining living goblet. “Will you be at the teepee village later?” Amber asks with a smirk.
“Probably.” He smiles as he stares at the woman, while the magnetism of their reciprocal attraction charges the lambent space between them; he feels her glowing warmth deep inside the still core of his entranced Hermetic heart. “That’s where you’ll find me at dawn,” he says. “By the creek - if you want to.” Amber’s hand slips beneath his shirt, her palm barely touching his flesh as it glides up to rest over his left nipple - just grazing the hairs of his chest, that rise to meet her electrifying touch. She mashes her soft lips against his mouth and squeezes his loins through the stretching fabric of his drawstring pants.
“I’ll be there,” she breathes through their kiss – and then she’s gone, skipping barefoot between the trees to climb up onto the road in the moon-dappled dark. Ram’yana stands stock-still while he reels amidst the strangely echoing vibrations of nearby mind-altering music, slowly drawing himself back to the present as Amber’s radiant flesh lingers on his skin and her taste fills his mouth with her delightful flavour. Waves of sound wash over him in swelling tides of subtle pressure; scintillating electronica edged in foaming white noise mingles with the plashing gurgle of the ancient rock-channelled stream as it sings stories as old as the hills.
He gasps.
Ram’yana rides the currents as his body strides off, following waves and nodes flowing through the night-mantled earth - a frozen glacial landscape that rolls slowly downhill towards the nearby stream and the patient sea. He surfs across the base of its frozen mass and glides back toward the brightly lit gig in the nearby artists’ refuge, while his four major familiars form figure eights around him in the night.
As he reaches the grounds of the Bush Theatre and begins to contemplate the cluttered nightscape, a voice the shaman hasn’t heard for years assails him. “Hail and well met, forsooth!” Earl Rupert of the Chaos Courts is smiling through a psychedelic glaze that limns his skin with lurid pinkness as he stands at the edge of the car park. “I was hoping to meet thee here one year or another, Prince Ram’yana. It’s been - what – a decade? How art thou?”
“Tripping,” the prince replies with a grin as he nods in greeting to the gleaming-eyed earl. “As am I!” Rupert laughs, “On fine psilocybin no less! I need to twist thine mind a little and tweak the cockles of thy imagination while we’re both so fortuitously fucked – while our minds are simultaneously and suitably enlargened!” He laughs even more loudly, and twirls a black beret in his fingers while he pulls at his ginger beard. “And is this thy little friend?” His eyes focus over Ram’s shoulder and the shaman turns to see Amber walking out of the darkness. “I have time to come with you after all,” she says as their hands automatically reach for each other. “And I can’t go back like this…”
Ram’yana’s grin splits his mouth into a crescent moon. “Amber, this is Rupert.” The Centraxian prince knows the happily grinning earl won’t be satisfied until he’s been properly introduced - and has a chance to kiss Amber’s slender hand. “Ah,” the cavalier sighs as he leans forward in a slight bow and his lips briefly touch her fingers, “pleased to meet thee, milady. ’Tis always a pleasure to meet a consort of Ram Heru Ayana’s – and particularly such a beauteous one! But then, he’s always had exceptional taste in…” Ram’s eyes meet the Earl’s. Rupert shakes his head as he stands more erectly and clicks his heels with martial vigour, interrupting his spiel before he can assail the woman with more salacious nostalgic reverie. “I was just preparing to pick his brains for a while – wouldst thou care to join me? I assure ye, they’re usually quite tasty - as thou must surely already know…”
Amber stares at the tripping man with a blankly steady expression as her irises expand and contract. “I’m a vegetarian,” she replies. “I prefer a melding of minds to a vampiric inquisition.” She leans into Ram’s side and stares up at the tall redhead. “Either way,” Rupert says with a slightly faltering grin, “’tis kismet that we should meet in this time and place – surely predestined and foreordained!”
Amber smiles up at the earl as music pours from the old wood and concrete of the reconstituted factory. “The past, present and future are not fixed in stone, but writ on waves,” she says. “We live in an infinite multiverse where whatever we believe to be real is what we come to experience. You are the result and source of free will.”
“Destiny isn’t density,” Ram’yana adds. He feels a stream of words divert from Amber’s pooling thoughts, to erupt through wakening channels within his semiconscious protoplasm. She nods as he continues; “Time has no beginning or end; it isn’t a line or even a circle, but a spiraling figure-eight of interweaving probabilities; a double helix of eternal transformation. Thy centre is the centre of the infinite universe… the central axis of any infinite universe…”
“An obvious point for a Centraxian to make, if I may be so bold.” Rupert inclines his head as he gets into the swing of their impromptu philosophising. “After all, there was no ‘Big Bang’ – we live in an infinite cosmos, in infinite time, with no need of creation by an external creator. We don’t live in a mythical ‘one word world’ or a univerb universe; we live at the nexus point of infinite possibilities. We are the makers of universes.” A small smile of triumph splits ginger beard from orange moustache as Rupert’s eyes twinkle at the slender golden woman.
“Make of it what thou wilt, but the proof of our godhood is here, stroking our senses with tenacious reminders that we ignore at our eternal peril. Those who remain unaware of their inherent godliness,” he says with a bow, “are subject to the whims of other immortals.” He arches a brow at the crowd gathered round the nearest fire. “We all share and create one eternal reality, but the world we create can be a confining oyster if higher consciousness remains the unattainable pearl of great price – the way out is always in, openly hidden at the centre of things. We all need to remember where we come from before we can know where we are. Well?” he says as he stares at the shaman with an expectant gleam in his eye. “Spit it out!”
Ram’s rational mind attempts to follow and preempt the flowing course of discourse; his heart swells with something akin to loving pride when Amber pushes the rolling conversation along with a characteristically brilliant display. “The past, present and future are all equally illusory, equally real and equally malleable,” she says with a Mona Lisa smile. “We live in a fluid fractal reality where the whole is greater than all of its constituents – because every reality interpenetrates and partakes of all realities.” She squeezes Ram’s fingers and Rupert gapes at her riposte as she continues her erudite elucidation.
“We are not trapped in a collective creation,” she insists. “We are all passing through each other’s interpenetrating creations. Anything and everything is possible and everyone gets to decide what’s probable – and everyone decides what actually occurs. There are no accidents and no victims; we each and all create our own interweaving realities with our inner, unarticulated and unexamined drives, hopes and fears - or focused will and conscious concentration. We all get what we want either way - even if most people do not remember what it is they have wished for.”
“I grok,” Rupert declares as a more serious expression incarnates upon his mobile face. “No object can contain something larger than itself – the ever-expanding Mandelbrot Series is ample evidence that the universe must be infinitely larger than the narrow confines imposed on it by obsolete 20th century ideas; the Mandelbrot field swiftly grow to become larger than the – ha ha - posited limits of the entire universe.” His fingers explore his pockets and a lone kookaburra cackles at the moon until the earl continues. “As you explore ever more deeply into the mathematical reality of infinitely recursive fractals you see that nothing ever really repeats, recurs or mirrors anything else exactly – and that everything is an aspect of everything else. Fair enough,” he says. “But where does it get you – or us?”
Ram’yana feels the words well up his throat and erupt from his mouth, but he has no idea of what he’s about to say until the sentences unreel from his tongue. “Reality is a fluid fractal hologram,” he agrees. “Combining the concepts of holography and fractals, primates dwelling on Earth at the dawn of this arbitrary New Millennium can barely begin to understand what it is that we’re living within. We don’t have the language to think it, let alone describe it. But we can begin to comprehend what it is to be a free-willed collective of conscious beings, dancing through an immortal mirror-maze multiverse.” He pauses for breath as Rupert lights a slim cigarette and offers another to Amber. A shooting star resolves into a bursting dandelion of incendiary coloured fragments as a loud retort fills the night, silencing the fire-lit murmurs of random conversation.
Ram’yana ignores the momentary firework display and plunges on, galloping through fluttering reams of psychedelic images and streaming encyclopaedias of endless words that flare betwixt fore and hindbrain; “We can begin to understand that all we experience is the consequence of our own thoughts, words and deeds. Our surroundings mirror our inner landscapes and our experiences play out and expand on the meanings that we’re fascinated by. We attract the events, people and places that we magnetise with the power and drives of our beliefs, our desires – and as you say, hopes and fears,” he declares, nodding an acknowledgment to Amber as he uses her words.
“Whichever drive you allow to predominate within you determines the nature and range, the flavours of your experiences – but you can decide the direction you take and the world you experience consciously, if you first examine your mind and your self, and learn to steer by observing the feedback. When you know that your body is your oldest, most intimate and truest friend - not a vehicle or a mirror, but the dreaming vessel of life and the temple of consciousness – it becomes a gateway to the entire cosmic hologram. A part,” he emphasises, “Not apart…
“All that’s needed to take the next step is to create a matrix of belief that transcends the old limitations – by dreaming and creating our lives with other brave adventurous people, who view the world through a similar spectrum of light.” Ram’yana takes a deep breath as headlights play across the earl’s cynical expression. “Pardon me,” the shaman smiles, “I’m tripping…”
Rupert leans back and shakes his head. “I think I need another joint,” he says. “The old tribal ways are behind us, I fear. Let’s take a different tack, seeing as I’m three sheets to the wind – or is it five? Anyway - if I’ve read thy ‘TimeSpace’ jottings correctly, thou sayest that ‘Particles’ are just the points where waves cross and spin the aether into vortexes. Every vortex reflects and refracts the pattern of every other vortex in every possible matrix…”
“Be here now,” Amber insists. “Be aware of your body; you are your immediate surroundings; where you are is where you want to be. ‘Reality’ is whatever we dream up – and everyone remains asleep within a composite shared dream, unless we can actually be here now, beyond the confines of the limited linguistic mind and mammalian monkey emotions – or any ideas about tiny little parts.” She rearranges her neckline as Rupert’s reddened eyes rove the length of her body.
“There is no ‘one reality’ or a single model that can clearly describe its evolving involutions. Everything has multiple meanings; no explosion or creation has a result that can be foreseeable.” She presses on as Rupert opens his mouth to interrupt. “Look, listen, feel, smell and taste where you are right now. This is the place your waking dream has led you to, within the confined perspective of a primate pack-bound tribal mentality - which you so accurately portray as an outmoded tool of primitive infants. This is where you wanted to be – before you came this far.
“Now you have only yourself to blame – and thank. Either course is equally ludicrous. You are an immortal being dwelling within your own Creation. I agree with you,” she says, and Rupert stands transfixed, staring at Amber through glazed blue eyes. “You are a god, and the world is all art. Look, listen, feel, smell and taste where you are right now. Is it good art? That’s the only real question the creator must consider. Do we dare to dream of a perfect existence? It’s more than just possible – it’s up to you, at every moment.
“And me,” she says with a smile.
Rupert leans down toward her and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper; “How long do you think all this will be allowed to last?” he asks. “I daresay the fat lady’s getting ready to sing any time now.” He straightens his spine and stares at the moon. “Feels like the band’s about to begin,” he says more loudly, shaking his shoulders to rouse himself from semi-hypnotised torpor. “I’ll go find my stash and meet thee within, and we can all continue this illuminating rave.” He bows with a flourish and strides off into the car park, humming with the music that emanates from the theatre as he departs without a backward glance.
Amber and Ram’yana step into the light. They pass clots of partygoers who weave on the spot to the reverberating sounds, passing the attractive warmth and bucolic ambience of the blazing drums. The cuddling couple follow the recorded voice of the long-dead Janis Joplin up the steps of the Bush Theatre, as the dearly departed hippy icon sings a lament about true love lost, and the double-edged sword of freedom.
“How long have you been here?” Amber asks as she takes his hand when they approach the threshold. “And why have you chosen to remain in this admittedly charming but brutally primitive little ‘timespace’?”
A true story
- R.A.
Images – author’s
Copyright Lyrics – Ballad of Bobby McGee by Janis Joplin
Desiderata - Max Ehrmann, 1927
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The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana