Friday, 24 September 2010
Psychedelic Water 24
After his ribald teenage years the shaman prince had grown to care more for the pleasures of his lovers than for his own gratification. When he entered his roaring twenties he achieved the heartfelt boyhood goal of becoming a consummate lover, and replaced a host of pleasant sensual addictions with a far more healthy - and ultimately ego boosting - variety.
For the next decade he basked in uninhibited glowing expressions of utter lust emblazoned on the blushing enraptured faces of myriad attractive mates. He gloried in their unabashed surrender to instinctive animalism and the complete satisfaction his talents wrought within their sleek and slender feminine frames. He became enthralled by plosive cries of ecstasy during eternal moments of total immersion and release; absorbed in the sheer inimitable naked exposure of a lover’s soul as she came and came with wide, unfocused blinking eyes riveted to his penetrative emerald gaze.
He became immersed in the ability to elicit symphonies of climactic joy from a beautiful lover’s scintillating nervous system and addictively attuned flesh. He soon came to live for little else, witnessing the truest vibrant core of being revealed within the mirror of her tantrically bared soul in a narcissistic fugue of completion and empowerment. Making love was the most wondrous, exalting, rewardingly satisfying and glorious experience in the world; the greatest art, creation itself, revealed through the blossoming flowers of love-melded bodies, minds, souls and spirits.
Laying and playing with particularly sensitive and highly strung living instruments, the young shaman became a maestro of sexual healing and transformation. Perfect matches inevitably appeared from hither and yon, attracted to the lodestone of his desire by sheer superconscious animal magnetism. Massaging knots of tension from their thoroughly oiled bodies he adjusted and aligned lovers’ necks, spines and limbs - attuning and harmonising with their untameable female energies before entering the ultimate holy of holies. They coupled in sublime Tantric duets which culminated in the unearthly transcendence of time-defeating simultaneous multiplex orgasms.
There was no shortage of willing lovers in the populous Emerald City; a continuous procession of beautiful women and girls invited him to partake in their most intimate mysteries. In almost every case their satisfaction was an undeniable wonder to behold. His mates’ often thankful (and sometimes awed) remarks were underlined by repeated visits to his capacious queen sized bed.
The shaman’s life continued along this wonderfully hedonistic track until the illusory terror of AIDS began stalking the land, and all long haired hippies were abruptly viewed with suspicion. Any male who didn’t appear decidedly straight and butch was suddenly perceived as a risky proposition – even though the majority of closeted homosexual men bore as little trace of effeminacy as possible. In the midst of their grimmest hour, gays were further ostracised from society and became even easier targets for hysterical vilification.
The alternative movement transformed overnight. Sensitive new age men and hirsute hippies were viewed as harbingers of a potentially grisly death. Long hair was swiftly shorn and colourful clothing rapidly muted to fit the monochrome mainstream. Bisexuality, a cultivated demeanour, artistic reputation and unisex clothes all became unfashionably flashing warning signs to be avoided by terrified females. Couples cleaved together as isolated nations of two and communal living declined. Freethinking lovers were apparently faced with Hobson’s choice; remain separated by unfeeling sheaths of toxin-coated rubber or become exclusively monogamous.
The hitherto declining mirage of the destitute economic institution of marriage had a fear-induced makeover; industrialists and governments were no longer threatened by the breakup of the nuclear family that made ‘modern’ wage serfdom possible. During this panicky withdrawal back to the womb tomb of humdrum monogamy, the flower of free love was crushed under the booted heel of conformity and all vestiges of the hippy youth revolution were hastily swept out of sight.
That this great terror was all based on a lie mattered not a whit. The fact that no-one was contracting what had hitherto been known as the ‘gay disease’ via ‘straight’ vaginal or oral sex failed to register on the skittish populace. Almost everyone was shocked and misled by endless scare tactics and fear campaigns.
As ever, mainstream awareness was continually saturated with bullshit and propaganda by the pliant mass media in those dying years of the old Cold War. Most of the alternative press had been obliterated in the post-disco, anti-hippy punk puke era. The assassination of John Lennon sounded a death knell for the principles of peace, love beauty and truth as societies all lurched to the right with astounding swiftness.
AIDS ushered in a back lashing fundamentalist decade in which the zeitgeist was bereft of fun and decidedly mental. Warmongers trumpeted an impending apocalypse and lackey beurocrats, governments and the cringing fourth estate ensured all citizens pulled together to speed the rush to oblivion. Students, unionists, anarchists and mystics were no longer given leeway to rock the leaky ships of state with tides of protest and criticism; the nascent surveillance state was born, suckling on patriotism, obedience and the right of might.
Hideous hawks like Ronnie Raygun and Maggot Hatcher were elevated to supreme positions of authority as the world braced itself for an unclear nuclear confrontation. People retreated into their own fundaments, withdrawing from the no longer happening scenes of endless wild partying, political protest, culture jamming or caring and sharing collectives. Most were boxed inside cages they willingly locked themselves into each night, afraid of their own shadows. By day they struggled through clotted traffic jams to perform shifts on humdrum rat wheels that powered the juggernaut of ecological destruction; in a prison planet the prisoners are their own jailors.
Fear drove people apart and pushed couples together as welded wedded units. Wage serfs became firmly rooted before flickering TV screens and the endless distracting novelties of home video units or primitive games of Pong; the wonders of PacMan and Space Invaders were still unrealised dreams of advancing technology and home computers were clunky glorified typewriters used only by rare cognoscenti. The terms ‘geek’ and ‘nerd’ were as yet uninvented and the world wide web was still only the merest gleam in the eye of a promising youngster named Tim.
Everyone believed the world could easily end on any morrow and the phrase ‘one flash and you’re ash’ lurked in the backblocks of everyone’s mind. People lived and loved in a semi-psychotic state of denial, balancing fear against hope on a knife edge of unhelpful reason and ongoing delusion. Morbid dying religions snuffled back in an unholy resurgence of lace frocked paedophiles and gormless grinning tricksters - booming factories of delusion that fed on the fear of death alongside a multitude of other superstitious cults.
In this era of rampant hatred and errant confusion the shaman kept his long mane intact and was therefore soon riven from his accustomed stream of uninhibited lovers. In a matter of months he was willingly led into a life of serial monogamy, squiring an unbroken series of beautiful maidens and alluring earth mothers who accompanied him throughout the fading golden years of bloated capitalism.
His invariably comely spouses were always righteously entertained in the wastrel Reaganomic boom years, when greed was considered good and Mammon wore a guilt-edged crown. Champagne, cocaine and cascades of money seemed to rain from the sky in unending showers. The shaman inherited a sturdy brick house and returned to the Emerald City. He built a business lighting rock and roll bands, cabaret acts and theatrical ventures from an office-cum-workspace in a small spare room.
After a brief interregnum tussling with beurocrats who tried to stymie him registering the name he’d chosen, The Illuminati (Lightshow Company) was born. And yet owning a house and a business in the expensive Emerald City of Oz was a decidedly mixed blessing. Even without the burden of rent, daily life and nightly work were a high maintenance existence, demanding of time and energy.
And the river of love still flowed through the drought, diminished but never exhausted. Every year or the next, one lover led to another and the band played ever on. But each time he cohabited with a new lover there was always a nagging question in the back of his mind; Would she want me if I was still a poor homeless squatter?
By the time he began volunteering part time with a small alternative magazine known as Maggie’s Farm his life was filled with hedonistic delights. Writing and cartooning for the publication soon led to subediting, layout, distribution and a shared raft of other duties, all borne by those who collaborated within their surviving bastion of the once flourishing alternative press. In no time at all his time was all but filled with sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll, writing, drawing, study, business, music, tantra and partying hearty in an urbane urban existence that soon grew unreasonably cramped and stifling. Every three months he depressurised by climbing into the Illuminatimobile and rambled round the expansive countryside for a fortnight or two, distributing the magazine to every city, town and little village on his circuitous beat.
During a years-long tryst with a beautiful oriental woman – a silken dreamboat whose heart was filled with dreadful panic whenever magic or transcendent issues arose - spiritual concerns faded before the unceasing onslaughts of karmic happenstance, schedules and sensuality. The shaman became immersed in worldly fascinations, only pausing to meditate a few times each moon and engaging in ritual magic just a handful of times each season.
Then, as the New Age movement convened the Harmonic Convergence (a consciousness raising global event precisely placed between the 1962 astrological heralding of the Age of Aquarius and the culminating moment in 2012), the inveterate veteran of fading revolutions finally fathered a child. He was faced with the starkest realities of maturity when it became clear he wouldn’t be living with baby or mother. The disconsolate shaman began exploring the inner life once more and sublimated his paternal instincts by founding what was to become a popular and enduring alternative magazine, and everything began to change.
The walls between ideologies all blew down in a puff. Iron curtains dissolved overnight and the most notoriously racist nation on the planet disbanded its gaggling maze of heartless fenced compounds – and miraculously, all without bloodshed. After a decade of unparalleled hedonism and planetary destruction the Cold War ended and a brave new world beckoned with all its unending enticements, unheralded challenges, unfathomable dreams and unknowable possibilities.
As the golden boom years lurched to a halt and the walls between East and West tumbled down, the shaman decided to walk the walk he’d long been talking. He swapped his spacious urban brick house on its quarter acre suburban block for a small wooden cabin in a vast, remote hinterland forest. The first non-military internet – the Pegasus Network – was a wondrous link to the outside world and the little Mac Plus computer that made NEXUS New Times Magazine possible was easily transported to the paradisiacal wilderness.
Many or most of the new settlers who’d preceded him into the largely abandoned farmlands or wilderness had gone bush in expectation of the immanent demise of civilization. When the nuclear threat appeared to abate, most trickled back into civilisation and slowly left the thickly populated hinterlands, to re-emerge into the sunny coastal cities and towns of their bygone childhoods. The shaman stayed on while crowded alternative communities thinned out and died all around him.
Years were filled with planting, building, magazine work, distribution, study, music and art. He made reverent explorations of the rugged land and serial attempts at permanent cohabitation as he sought a woman who’d accept an isolate life in exchange for the boon of a garden paradise. After a few moons without regular shopping or socialising with their network of friends, his lovers were invariably deterred by life in a remote forest and soon returned to beach town or city.
He couldn’t quite bring himself to take these rejections personally - the same was happening everywhere he ventured to look. All the hills and valleys were studded with single men and many were almost bereft of women. Nearly all females craved society, shops and entertainment and left any man who wouldn’t follow them back to town.
There was only ever one woman he would have followed anywhere, and now she was far, far gone in more ways than one… and the lovelorn shaman finally began to truly experience the quiet life of a rural hermit.
Every night for many lone years he kept a candle burning in the window of the small wooden cabin, illuminating the winding river stone path to his door. Every night he drifted into realms of sleep murmuring the name of his long lost best beloved. Each night he dreamt glorious dreams of life and love with his missing paramour, only to wake alone in his empty bed.
Now, after many lone years exploring secretive sacred or sinister places in lands where the wild things are (just like the runaway boy in the book which his mother read to him as a young child), he’s become unfamiliar with the addictive and empowering effect of sexuality – the blinding prerogatives of rekindled yearning and the need to be needed and wanted again.
Amber... The newly met golden girl’s image burns brightly before him, luring him onward through the tricksy royal maze of reality. I’ll find you again, he assures the lovely apparition that glows through veils of mind and material. He refocuses his wandering concentration, anchoring all the needleful motivation in his heart and mind to the magnetic locus of her absent being.
As he turns the key the Jackaroo Deva instantly grumbles to life, drowning out the amplified heartbeat of pounding drums and tinkling trinkets of nearby laughter. While the engine warms up he tries to envisage a scene that will suggest where the uncannily beautiful woman he seeks might be, but his imagination only draws a blank slate.
He stares through the glorious green world that’s framed in the wide screen windscreen; a shadow play background for his fixated yen to see and feel her soon, again. The lodestone of his heart swings to and fro in patient search of her fragrant trace while pictures of a painted streetscape, jostling vehicles, costumed celebrants and, finally, Amber’s bright orange dress and beamish smile flash before his inner eye.
Using the steering wheel for leverage he straightens his spine. A series of cracks and crackles pops loudly over the idling engine as lumbar, thoracic and cervical vertebrae jump into place, from the base of his sacrum all the way past the unknotting plexus behind his heart, beyond the solid juncture of the Big Hammer vertebra at the base of his neck to the settling seat of his skull.
When he subsides back into the bucket seat’s beaded wooden cover he realises he still inhabits a waking dream. Instead of trying to pick up a psychic trace of the beautiful Asian woman’s whereabouts he’s recalling distracting images of her face, transfixed in the enduring eternity of Tantric ecstasy; a vision so vividly recent it remains branded deep inside his realigning bones.
He craves the unforgettable look that shines inside her hypnotic golden orange eyes, craves the sight and touch of her again, in the flesh – longs to experience the explosive eruption of unparalleled passionate energy bursting from within Amber’s svelte form as he watches and hears and feels her come and come again in helpless surrender to the most primal, all-encompassing, self-consuming urge of all. He needs to stare into those strangely angular eyes and share her ascent past the pyre of desire to heights of transcendent bliss.
The search for my anima, projected outside my self into the world, the shaman’s inner daemon reminds him. Futile to seek a twin flame in another… any other… He strokes tangles from his bushy beard and watches a Willy Wagtail flit from branchlet to twig, dancing above the makeshift bower where the newfound lovers shared the dawning morn. Another form of the same old primal addiction, he ruminates, squirming behind the wheel of the aging all terrain vehicle. Don’t be hard on yourself… the same as being too strict with another…
The bird jumps onto the bonnet and stares into his eyes. Is it love and loving I truly want, or the desire for unending mind-blowing orgasm projected into a receptive woman’s body and soul… Ideas give birth to endless generations of notions and the shaman observes the sparring dichotomy of dialectic thoughts from a centralised remove - watching a pair of internal personalities play ping pong across the net of his corpus calossum while the Willy Wagtail watches him watching.
Feeling and seeing and hearing the singing, screaming, howling delight of a beloved prime mate in heat has long been an enthralling reward for his artistic ministrations, yet now deep currents of muddied motives rankle his conscience. Not different from being addicted to your own orgasm… no more noble, this craving for egocentric satisfaction… still the pursuit of orgasm, translated into a surrogate body…
But with Amber it’s different… melding, transfiguring, exalting… He remembers the soul fusing surge of their passion a few hours earlier, relives the way their lovemaking transformed into something higher, finer and immeasurably more expansive than the simple scratching of a sexual itch. Making love with Amber is so much more… loving… than sweet rough and tumble sex with Angel or with other women; most other women, he reminds himself after a rapid mental inventory.
She even made me forget Her, he realises as the enduring love of his life reasserts Herself in his mind. Until now…
His head shakes to dispel the incipient emotions aroused by the image of Her, and fond memories of gifted lovers and even the unforgettable face of his greatest lost paramour fade into pastel shades and blurring shadows before the blazing memory of Amber’s limber frame – still burning in his heart and loins - and the unadulterated joy of her extraordinary hypersensitivity; the expanding bellows of her breath-filled, breast-padded ribcage and the expansive breadth of her inspiring mind. His entire being still thrums with the undeniably psychic responsiveness of a gifted Tantricka; the paradisiacal blessings of a true Daikini.
Their tryst is impregnated into his blood and etched into his bones. His body sits erect behind the wheel while reawakening eyes stare into the gaze if the tiny motionless bird, beyond the screening glass that separates him from the 3D screen of the apparently solid, eternal outer world – a vapid illusion beside the vivid conjunction of Amber’s embrace in the bygone light of their psychedelic dawn.
The urgent reality of her racing pulse and galloping heartbeat obtrudes through all his senses while he relives the benison of their timeless idyll in the enchanted bower beside the burbling creek. His hands grip the wheel with unwarranted intensity as he stares into the thicket of greenness where their loving unfolded and blossomed; the bird flies away along the fishing line of his sight.
Flavours of cardamom, cinnamon, musk, blueberry and the very spice of life itself simmer on his lips as they’re transported to a realm encompassing only the two of them, twain become one. The outer world of forest, river, animals, sky and the incessant noises of human beings is subsumed and dissolved within an almighty intensity of vibrantly sublime passion.
Every feature of external reality is obviously an extrusion of their expanding senses and mesmerised monkey minds; a deeper core of transcendent being stares though the sieve of their transparing skulls at the insubstantial substrate of the dawning planet.
The world is made of mindstuff, and the silent conjunction of their unified mind is made of the selfsame stuff as the illusory world. They soar and float in timeless spaciousness where no thing is separate and all is one, anchored by nothing but sharing and love. The world responds to each nuance of will, pulsing and throbbing in rhythms of shifting awareness.
Beyond the cares of time and space, the physical stuff of their interlocked bodies a dreaming mass of textures and shapes, tastes and scents, they sip the nectar of being, combining. Their margins are ineffable, indefinable, bodies and personalities alloyed yet pure, ineradicably, intractably one, a single shared stream of thoughtlessly cascading bliss…
He slowly wakes for a second time and emerges through a dissolving veil into dazzling late morning light. Sunbeams pour through a scattered canopy, distorting all insights exhumed from beyond and dissolving the portals of astral realms. He inhales the sweet scent and bodily balms that anoint his skin and hair and beard, suffused with the sharp tangs of wood smoke and toast.
Images appear to occlude the morn with the wordless visions formed by their lovemaking, flashing back through waking memories of swiftly dissolving reams of dreams. Scenes parade through his drifting mind, artfully narrated by languid discussions they’d shared in the glow of primal night. The words are their minds combining in dialog where his or her thoughts, ideas or words are melded into a seamless unity; harmonised hemispheres of a balanced brain.
“The universe is a hologram… as above, so below… reflected in and refracted by every point in existence… an immeasurable living fractal refraction continually emerging, pouring out from its innermost core and returning into its fundaments… At the central axis of every place is a gateway to all other intersecting possibilities… and geometries of a higher order than three basic dimensions.”
Whose thought is which? s/he wonders, and wonders again in echoing echoes. It pours out through both of us, all of us, everything…
“Pouring from hyperspace, interpenetrating, creating the familiar world from higher realms… consciousness sees all points in this continuum simultaneously… consciousness is everywhere and everywhen, leaking into and out of the universe as water through a holey sieve… creation and acts of creation ongoing and eternal, no beginning nor any end… the creative creator lives at every point in space and time, within each creature and creation, everywhere, like gravity and levity... the Creative is everywhere simultaneously, integrated into this world from a higher eminence… immanence interpenetrating human percepts, constructing reality with wordless words… The best of all possible words or worlds...”
Each stares into the other’s mind, recognising the selfsame being in the beloved’s eyes, while melded bodies luxuriate in ecstasy at the end of all striving.
“The Creative is now, everywhere, everywhen imaginable... interpenetrating the material 3D universe from beyond the sunken sea of time, inhabiting every point and star... The world is a cross-section of extra-dimensional hyperspaces… everything within this time-spaced world appears simultaneously and transparent to an awareness beyond time... This world and these bodies are cross-sections of more complex, deeper realms… A geometric certainty.”
“Awareness is a field of light, existing within us and without us, right now, for ever.”
She begins where he tails off; he completes her beginnings. They are the Wyrm Orouboros, creating and devouring time and itself, an endless curving Moebius circle that turns and twists into spiralling serpents which rise through and round their entwining beings.
“Thou art God.”
“Thou art Goddess.”
A sudden discernment of differentiation gently prises their souls apart, and as the sweet taste of Amber returns to Ram’s lips he notices he’s alone.
He blinks into the light. She’s gone. Scattered clouds frisk above the shattered regrowth of the volcanic valley, richly mantled in viridian glades, grassy paddocks and deeper shades of resurgent subtropical forest. The shaman’s eyes peer into florid greenness. It’s impossible to see the hundreds of idiosyncratic handmade dwellings which surround his camp for miles around - nestled amongst fruit and nut trees that seamlessly merge into recovering rainforest - yet the presence of myriad minds is an ever present chatter behind the enchanting illusion of the wondrous world.
Locals (and police helicopter crews) certainly know that people are ensconced in every conceivable nook, from ridgetop tree houses to stiltwalking dwellings in canopied riverbeds, inside structures precariously suspended from the edges of cliffs or beside pristine creeks winding through black basalt gorges, in paradisiacal sheltered glens or exposed plateau perches with views of forever.
If not for the crowds who occasionally mill through the streets of local towns and villages it would be hard to imagine that so many psychedelically colourful people live within the thriving invisible counterculture of the Rainbow Region of Oz. A slim majority of straight-looking beef growers, shopkeepers, students, orchardists, dairy farmers and public servants are far more obvious than their alternative counterparts; most wear suits or cowboy clothes as protective façades.
As the well worn generation-old local adage goes, ‘The shorter the hair, the bigger the crop.’ In rural districts of Oz many shops and businesses only stay open and viable because transactions flow beneath the counter – a rarely discussed aspect of the burgeoning hidden counter culture.
He returns to the refractive present and finds himself sitting inside a vibrating vehicle that blows a poisonous stench of condensing particles into pristine air and riverside soil, and wonders;
What year is it?
A True Story
Images - author's
Further True Tales of the prince of Centraxis -
More True Tales of the Prince of Centraxis…
For further edification see –
The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com
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From The Prince of Centraxis - http://centraxis.blogspot.com