Prophetic Conspirators
Psychedelic Water 27
*
Memories of the night before distracted his
overladen mind. “How are you enjoying Oz?” the long haired shaman had asked the
intrepid pair of international visitors. Cheers and laughter erupted from
the sparking bonfire on the other side of the party-strewn paddock, where a flittering
spume of flaming starlets poured upward to greet the Milky Way.
“It great!” Zen beamed through translucent
flames as their smaller campfire flared in seeming sympathy. “We want to live
here, but our visa run out soon.” He turned to his partner Shi, who was briskly
nodding agreement. The Japanese couple was obviously enjoying this taste of
tribal tepee life in the hippified Rainbow Region of Oz, yet they’d shifted an
arm’s length apart amid the small circle of newfound friends. Despite their
recent exposure to naked hippies and semipublic lovemaking, the shaman surmised
the couple’s rigidified Nipponese upbringing ensured they betrayed no overt
signs of physical affection.
“You can always come back, bud,” Cameron
assured him.
Zen balanced Shi’s extended
hand on his knee. “I want to. We want to.”
“You’ve had no trouble here?” asked Cameron.
The young travelers looked to one another before Shi answered for both; “No,
not trouble. Just some old people swear at us in Queensland.” She shrugged her
slight shoulders while flying foxes screeched through the treetops.
“You may encounter that with many older
people here, particularly in Queensland – because of World War Two. You know
what I’m talking about?” Ram’yana felt like Basil Fawlty attempting to be
diplomatic as the thought ‘Don’t mention
the war’ flitted through his bedazzled noggin. The visitors glanced at each
other again before Zen nodded. “Yes, we hear of it,” he affirmed.
.
“Well… older Queenslanders and other people
in the north of Oz will never forget that the rest of the country was willing
to hand them over to Japan if New Guinea fell.”
“Everything north of Brisbane,” Cameron
agreed. “The whole top half of the country. And – well, no offence, but there
were some hideous atrocities committed in that war and a lot of older people
don’t forget that, either.”
Zen tilted his head to one side. “Really?”
“There certainly were,” the shaman carefully
enunciated each word through flickering flames. “Almost a lifetime ago now. There
is a new generation in Japan that has been told nothing of it – and isn’t
responsible for any of it. We certainly do not hold it against you. But the
generations before us will never forget and many will never forgive – and the
fact that nothing is taught about it in Japan is a real concern to much of the
world.”
“That’s right,” Cameron agreed. “Most of my
older relatives hate Japan to this day. We grew up hearing horror stories about
guys being carved up and tortured from my uncle. He was in the Pacific…”
“You have to remember,” Ram said with
a glance to Cameron, “propaganda was at least as bad on all sides as it is
today. Even worse in wartime, of course. The history we read and were taught
isn’t very accurate either – it was written by the victors, after all...”
“Always is,” concurred Cameron.
“…There were atrocities on all
sides – though the ruling caste of the Japanese government considered themselves
superior to all other races, just like the Nazis. They treated everyone else just
as badly as the S.S. did the Jews and Gypsies.
“Japan created a slaughterhouse
all around them before Hiroshima was bombed,” Ram continued, holding Cameron’s
firelit gaze. “But you know, they were actually forced into the war.”
“They were? I’ve heard that, but what do you
mean? What about Pearl Harbour?” Cameron’s interest flared with the firelight.
“The West cut off their oil supplies and just
about everything else they needed to make themselves self-sufficient in a
colonial world, and the US sent pilots to help China fight them. The Japanese elite
realised they could take the Western Pacific only if they could destroy the US
military there in just six months – by wiping out its Pacific fleet at one
stroke. Their plan actually unraveled right at the beginning at Pearl Harbour,
when some of their targets escaped; but it’s all a long story, like the Opium
Wars…”
“Ah,” Zen nodded. Shi was obviously
struggling to keep up with the conversation and he translated in a rapid burst
of Japanese. “This very difficult, but interesting for us,” she said as
comprehension dawned on her oval face.
“Mind you,” Ram continued, “Japan took
Manchuria – though they may have had ancestral links to the place - and the
shocking war against China was fought in a despicable manner. Japan hadn’t
signed the Geneva Convention…”
“No…” Zen asked the question as a statement.
“No,” Cameron averred.
“You don’t mind discussing this?” the shaman
belatedly asked the young couple.
“No, we not mind,” Zen said for them both.
“We want to know.”
“Well… you know that Japan bombed the city of
Darwin, in the north of this country? Destroyed it completely?” Cameron asked.
The visitors shook their heads in confusion. “Bombed many, many times. Or that
midget submarines attacked Sydney Harbour?” The visitors were nonplussed.
“No…” Shi breathed. “We not know…”
“It cuts both ways,” Ram observed. “Australians
weren’t told the truth about Darwin either, thanks to the excuse of wartime
censorship. And we know so little about Nippon or its history - and everything
we think we know is twisted out of true by the media, intelligence agencies and
politicians.” Watching the Japanese couple feel the pressure of the past,
bowing their heads toward the fire and frowning in consternation, he decided to
change the subject; “You’ve had no trouble with young people here?”
“No,” Shi smiled, looking up from the flames.
“Mostly it great.”
She turned to watch Mandy emerge from the
night and pull a deckchair toward the fire. Ram’yana was aware that the feral girl
had been silently observing the conversation while twirling her blond
dreadlocks in the shadows. He watched her watching the Japanese. She and her
beau were slowly constructing their place in the Sun on the Star Earth tribal
land, after their shady little love shack had mysteriously burned down a few
weeks before the festival.
“When you come back from Japan
you’d better arrange to bring some more of those young hippies with you,”
Cameron laughed. “Save them by bringing them here to this hippy preserve.
“If we make it back,” Zen said, “Before
something bad happen.”
“You think something bad is going to happen?”
Cameron leaned forward into the heat. “Like what? War with China?”
Zen looked him in the eye. “Maybe
that. Maybe something else. Not know what – but something. Many feel it in
Japan. Things cannot go on as they are – something big is coming.” The
Westerners sat in silence as he continued. “Maybe the Earth will rebel… But it
good for me – it probably necessary for enlightenment, to go into the next…
dimension?” *
“That’s the word,” the shaman
assured him.
“Next dimension is where we all
need to go. The next level.”
“I understand,” Ram said slowly,
“but you know – it isn’t necessary to die to reach enlightenment.” He caught
Mandy’s approving smile across the flames. Zen appeared nonplussed. “Enlightenment
is a transformation, not an achievement. And if there are another series of
dimensions beyond this one – not parallel universes, but higher geometric
dimensions – you know what I mean?” Zen nodded, hanging on every word. “Then we
must already be in them, they must be
accessible to us from here.” He saw
he was moving beyond the visitors’ comprehension of English and took another
tack that dovetailed with Zen’s interest in physics. “If eleven dimensions exist
then how can we only exist in three or four of them? We must extrude, project, into all of them already. Understand?”
“Hmmm. This is very interesting.
It not be necessary to die to be there… but how?”
“You know that the way out is
always in?” the shaman asked him. Zen nodded in time with Shi. “Meditation, and
the conscious development of the wider supersenses available to us; conscious
exploration of those realms that we already extrude into, learning to see with
new eyes... Armageddon isn’t necessary to reach enlightenment. Purification by fire is not something you need
to go through. You are free now.”
“Many people in Japan think we
must die to go on,” Zen said. “They think it a good thing. This is very
interesting. I must think about this…”
“Many people think the same thing
here, too,” Cameron sympathised. “But we have to go on and endure. It’s too
easy the other way. ‘Nobody gets off until the mess is cleaned up.’ ”
The visitors nodded more profusely
at his sage pronouncement. *
Dazzling sunshine burns away the remaining clouds of post-trip doldrums
as he surveys the colourful crowded realm. The mess accumulates and energy swells
as adventurous travelers strut toward the promise of a truly psychedelic
experience - an indelible climax to the nascent weekend’s hedonistic foreplay.
By midday throngs already amass in the painted streets and shaded byways of the
far out little village of Nimbin.
Saturday’s brilliantine noonday
heat slowly transforms the vibrant subtropical splendour of the verdant landscape
into a viridian radiance of enervating humidity. The autumnal atmosphere verges
back into the sweaty green steambath conditions common during the last few years’
runaway greenhouse summers.
Yet untrammeled vigour still imbues the
eager assembly of freaks, straights, partying tourists and wannabe contenders,
all aglow with unabated intensity as they mingle and jostle for the year’s best
buds, heads, colas and other, less combustible comestibles. A demi-multitude straggles
into town along gravel tracks and bitumen arteries, undeterred by the heat of climate
catastrophe or police state shenanigans.
The locals are thoroughly
outnumbered. Garbage bins overflow along the crowd-filled footpaths as
thousands of camera wielding, fast food chomping visitors from despoiled lands
of drear normality throng and mix, deal and fix, see and be seen beneath
banners of the rainbow tribes and the all-seeing eyes of robotic surveillance
cams. Spectrum-spanning painted faces stud the baseball capped crowd in chaotic
arcs of rainbow colours, a well laundered shimmering sea of shiny
black-and-blue-clad suburbanites.
Why
don’t you speak of what you’ve seen? The shaman muses as he rises from his
seat to leave the Oasis. Is it just
egotistic concerns over credibility – or a matter of not speaking of things
which don’t want to be known?
Many of the visitors exist under a
perennial stupor
of paranoia in ‘normal’ workaday lives - fearing loss of station or job,
marriage or children, afraid of peer or parental disapproval and all the other snares
and grasping adhesions of the noxious social glue that holds the hive in which
they’re enmeshed together – even, particularly,
while walking and gawking down the main and almost only street of World Hippie
Central.
The alternative-minded but
socially camouflaged throng doesn’t realise that they actually represent most of the world’s far-flung peoples –
non-conformists at heart, who all live under the self-imposed harness of
unnecessary fears, weighed down by the pointless guilt so keenly felt by true
innocents deprived of normal human requirements, and made to feel inferior when
they seek to satisfy normal human needs and appetites.
All yearn for release from the
straightjacket asylum of a barely post-feudal civilisation run by lunatic control
freaks, as the lucky few mingle on Nimbin’s main street and goggle at the
multitude of gleeful fellow travellers.
Ages-old witches, mages and shamans
still ride and stride within us all, suppressed or oppressed or free as birds
in a straightjacket world of po-faced conformists. All humans hanker after a
flavour that leads to the taste of other dimensions, fresher views - zestier,
more riveting impressions of the sumptuous reality through which we otherwise
drift like limbo-bound wraiths and grey automatons.
Most Mardi Grass revelers couldn’t
give a damn about hypocritical, unjust laws and certainly know they’re not damaged or damned, but
blessed to be out and about in one of the brightest, freest times and places in
all the vast murky realms of human history.
Everyone’s here to party and
experience unseen sights and untried delights; hippies, yuppie ‘aspirationals’,
dreadlocked Rastas and dreaded ferals, priests, politicians, students, TV crews
and reporters and backpacking travellers from all round the globe,
shopkeepers, soldiers, big and little old men and women, checkout chicks,
lawyers, bureaucrats, proud parents carrying brightly bedecked newborn babes,
emigrant Greek and Italian fishermen, Indian software writers and call centre voices, emo Goths - and anyone
else not interested in being an active part of the subtly feudal friendly
fascist police surveillance state of impersonal corporate Big Brother clones
and militant industrialists - and all seek the selfsame source of the philosophers,
stoned. A broad cross-section is represented, as they say, and just about everyone’s
smiling.
Fleecy clouds begin coalescing in
the wide open sky’s more distant margins, blowing apart in this late
Interglacial Age’s inexorably rising winds. The Rainbow Region is multiply blessed
with rich soil and sunlight, breezes and rain, luxuriantly lush and deliriously
green even at the end of a historic nationwide mother of all droughts, and for
the first time the annual parade will be free of the double-edged benison of
rain.
A good
year for curing the mull, if you look on the bright side… Could be a good
vintage… The
shamanic prince’s thoughts flit hither and yon while he makes a sine wave
beeline for the market’s great Strangler fig. The Tree of Life beckons, arching
across the market ground’s annual outdoor stage as he strides through streams
of fossicking punters hovering round myriad stalls and jewellery-strewn blankets. The future’s so bright we’ll have to wear
shades…
He reaches the Chai Tent and gratefully
slides through a mismatched litter of comfy cushions on the hempen expanse of canvas
flooring. Each and every Mardi Grass, the space beneath the market site’s grand
old fig is reserved for the Chai Tent, right beside the covered stage. The
chai’s always good - if you wait for it to properly brew - gingery and
purifying for the partied-out and jaded throng recovering from the pleasant
excesses of Friday night.
After taking a breath Ram’yana rises to inspect a
tasty array of homemade organic cakes while John ladles some brew into a varied
menagerie of ceramic cups. Muzza and John are regular fixtures at most
alternative events, their friendly bearded familiar faces ever beaming behind
fluttering prayer flags and political messages. They help their latest batch of
eager helpers mix chai, coffee, teas and munchies beneath generously shady canopies
of giant tree and green marquee.
These days only half the food
vendors in the ‘alternative’ township pay any attention to actual human or
environmental health, beyond ubiquitous
legal requirements of sanitation, hygiene and similar niceties. Most of the
shops sell paying consumers toxic crap, just like the stuff most human folk
will eat before, during or after reading these words.
But in Nimbin the other half are still wonderfully
fastidious and most local produce is fairly organic. It’s been decades since aerial spraying of Agent
Orange was commonplace in these rural parts – in a saleable form with a
slightly different brand name, of course, sprayed directly into the waterways
and everywhere else when the hippies first arrived; one more lasting legacy of
war’s fine record of ongoing ‘technological advancement’.
In Vietnam the peasants had no idea
what was happening to them, but in Oz and other ‘advanced’ nations they sprayed
tetragenic toxic herbicides on their own cropland, water, animals, farming
families and newcomer hippies alike – and still do, to a lesser extent, with
slightly lesser evils. Even in the ‘developed world’, the peasants are too ignorant
or naive to realise that poison is poison is poison, and that all the
products of Big Pharma and Big Oil and Big Brother are noxious, toxic,
persistent carcinogens and/or agents of insidious slow death. Speed kills. So
does strychnine, arsenic, cadmium, mercury, lead (present in most fertlisers), Agent
Orange, Roundup, fungicides, vermicides and GM or cobalt-irradiated ‘food’. So
do preservatives, colourings, bleaches, flavours, microwaved molecules and most
of the other shit floating around in human bloodstreams in the early Third
Millennium.
And people wonder why they feel
stoned all the time, and why so many promising incarnations end so quickly from
lives of quiet compromise.
It’s worth remembering, even if
it’s unbelievable to most – three quarters of everything you eat, drink,
breathe, touch, paint on yourself or wear is toxic, carcinogenic and
debilitating. In a world where you rely on others instead of nature, all the
crap you buy and sell is made for making money,
not health. As any individual toxic compound combines with all the other stuff
in a ‘modern’ human body in ever more chaotic synergy, it’s no surprise almost
everyone in the modern world is walking wounded, half asleep, barely here –
role-playing the parts of automata in an industrial nightmare instead of being here now. Not to mention living
ridiculously short, painful lives, in constant fear of puzzling rebellion by the
unknown, unstudied territories of their own unexamined bodies and minds.
The only way out is IN - to create
an inner place of peace unaffected by turmoil, an inner sanctuary from which all
imagination and creativity and immunity spring – and OUT, moving far away from
the worst crap, stuff and nonsense of feudal capitalism, to at least attempt a different life in the last
remnants of a healthier world. To bring every ‘lost’ dream all the way back
from the last seed-source heartlands that still survive, and grow new lives that
keep those heartlands sacred and inviolate. To grow a healthy world with a
whole glowing soul. That’s the dream that most pursue or seek or view or try to
complete on the busy streets of little old Nimbin.
Here in the Rainbow Region a
generation of brave beings has largely succeeded in their attempt to change the
world within their horizon. The Nimbin Mardi Grass is barely a tenth of
a greater green iceberg lurking just out of sight of The Grey Man and his
equally hideous hidebound mate, the all-consuming Shopping Bitch. Alternative
notions have evolved into a hidden yet subtly influential nation nestled within
the recovering rainforest canopy that surrounds the salubrious vale. Its
denizens have no need to officially secede from the larger notional paradigm of
Oz – nothing secedes like success.
The Prince of Centraxis allows a
multitude of voices wash through his mind over blasts from an amplified reggae
horn section while Celtic harpists work the crowd from the psychedelic stage;
“We all have the Buddha and the Troll within”, a bearded man in saffron is
saying, leaning toward a group of escapee students beneath the hempen
tarpaulin. “Which do you prefer to give rein, and allow to reign through you?”
A high-pitched squeak obtrudes
from a dozen paces distant; “Have you really looked at the shots of the twin towers exploding before they fall?
Come on, it’s all a crock of shit…”
“He’s selling ounces for a hundred
and twenty but we have to be quick, it isn’t seedy…”
“Did you see those three girls doing it together at the doof?”
“Draw me a mud map and I can find
it. Can we camp there, do y’reckon?”
“…working on a flow form whereby
the superfine patterning embossed, as it were, on the metal substrate energises
the water flowing across it…”
“What kind of metal?”
“…nuclear dump site for the rest
of the world because that’s the only way we can have nuclear power plants and
vice versa…”
“…but also draws slight but
measurable and ultimately usable energy from the interaction…”
“…it’s all a little unclear if you
ask me…”
“It’s all about money – we’ll make
a motza from the storage fees – pay off the national debt…”
“You guys don’t remember, do you?”
“I’m going to hear that bloke from
Canadia talk – you know, the one who got the medical exemption that says he can
smoke?”
“I and eye don’ have t’worry, bud.
Jah Rastafarii!”
“You mean it? How does that work?”
“You seen Narla? I lost ’er last
night at the dance…”
“You mean your little girl?”
“Nah - her mum. Here – try some o’
this…”
“You know they had to let Rusty
off all the charges?”
“Why? Because he was picked up by
that flying saucer?”
“…the real question is, is scratching an itch a willed act?”
“Huh?”
“O’ course it is! Yer just don’
notice the instant that it takes f’ yer to decide to do it.” It’s all too fast
unless yer pay attention…”
“Ram!” Phico grabs the shaman prince’s left bicep, beaming and grinning
and passing him a spliff that’s seen better moments. “I knew you’d be in the
Chai Tent – already ready for the parade, I see.” With a twinkle in each eye he
scans the winged hat that surmounts wild ringlets of stream-washed hair cascading
over Ram’s traditional Green Tiger Snake ensemble. “You know it’s only
Saturnday.”
“Born ready. This is probably the
only way you’ve seen me for the past few years, isn’t it?” He passes the joint
back as he exhales and Phico points to a stranger seated beside them; the striking
Danish youth is more than happy to take the smoke off Ram’s hands., and shares
it with a trio of Iberian backpacking feral girls he’s enthusiastically
regaling with a tale of a bust at a recent extralegal outdoor gig; the herb
superb works wonders in overcoming language barriers.
Cones burn brightly beneath the
shade of trees and tarps and the sounds of burbling bong water occasionally
drown out the acoustic mandolin player now braving exposure on the otherwise
emptied stage.
“It’s a year since we last met –
right here, in fact.” Ram’yana begins to roll while watching an attractive acrobat twirl
on a thick rope overhead. Long strands of auburn hair trail down between him
and Phico.
“So it is. I’ll have to come visit
you in the rainforest again. How’s it all going out in the wild, anyway?”
“Growing. The river’s perfect and
there’s a bag of mandarins waiting for you at Star Earth.”
“Really? Thanks. It’s unusual that
the river’s still doing well in the drought...”
Ram’s eyes crinkle with his grin. “Wonderfully
unusual….”
A bearded harlequin with a starkly
delineated clown face joins them, creating a tiny circle amid circles of other festival-goers.
His eye sockets are molten blue streaks that descend past a radiant plastic
rose of a nose. “Hey, bro, how’s it doing?” He shakes Phico’s spidery hand.
“Hasn’t the weather been strange?” Ram’yana can’t resist responding; “‘Could it
be… a warning?’” Phico laughs while the younger man looks puzzled. “Sorry,”
Ram’ explains, “it’s a line from an old movie…”
“‘The Last Wave’, wasn’t it?” Phico recalls.
“That’s the one - the Peter Weir
movie about a tidal wave presaged by weird weather, among other things. It’s a
book as well, of course.”
“You don’t think we’re having one
of those, do you?” The harlequin asks. “Not up here? What’s the altitude,
anyway?”
Ram looks up and smiles at the
sky. “Right here? A couple of hundred metres. Fine for just about anything
except a bolide in the Pacific…”
“Or a pole shift. Mind you,” Phico
observes as the remnant number returns to him, “the Pacific’s pretty big –
about half the planet’s surface. Hitting it’s a fifty-fifty bet. Oh – Ram’yana,
this is Wanji.” Clown and shaman nod to each other while a police patrol
attempts to wade around them, wearing mildly distressed expressions as they
negotiate a circuitous path through the chaotically seated audience.
“They look really uncomfortable.”
Wanji smiles at the muscled men in their new camouflage riot gear, standing out
like sullen depressed dog’s balls amid the throng of happy campers. Everyone
ignores them as they walk through fragrant clouds from the flagrant crowd.
No-one even offers them a toke.
“Wouldn’t you be?” the
pink-skinned alchemist asks rhetorically.
“Hey, man, you’re looking really
good.” Wanji claps Phico on the back.
“Thanks. It’s been a good year –
but this has helped.” He produces a clear stoppered bottle filled with a viscous
pink fluid.
“What is it?”
“Seawater, converted far less than
halfway to the Philosopher’s Stone.” He passes the bottle to Wanji, who inverts
the thick fluid and rolls it around in the sealed bottle. “Huh? Sodium chloride
that’s been enhanced, or what?”
“That’s close. More like gold
chloride. How much do you know about alchemy?”
“Not a lot.”
“Well – that’s what cured my skin
cancers. Some of my hair’s even growing back – see?” Phico bows his crown for
their perusal.
“I thought you looked kind of pink
and new or something…”
“In the pink, that’s a certainty,”
Ram’yana agrees.
“Well – that’s one early physical
manifestation of the Great Work,” Phico beams with modest intensity. “As is
that bottle in your hand. I don’t have much, but use some of it if you feel the
need.”
“How?”
“Just smear it on.” Wanji eyes the pink goop dubiously. “Worked for me,” Ram’yana assures him. “See?” He raises his hat and lifts his hair to display his smoothly lined brow. “Last year there was a big grey splotch here. One application of that stuff and it’s still gone. Faded away in a couple of days.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I normally use saliva…
and the most important aspect is the concomitant visualisation. You have to
imagine yourself in perfect, robust health – and really feel it.”
“Your own spit is best,” Phico
explains. “Or your urine will do.” Wanji opens the bottle and sniffs. “Or you
can use that.”
“Chai?” Ram suggests, and rises to
procure more of the rainbow market’s beverage of choice. A flock of two-foot
tall, fairy-winged green toddlers surrounds his knees with star-spun magic
wands held proudly aloft. They stream through the crowd of reclining smokers, recovering
partiers, kissing lovers, munching tourists and dancing girls that surround the
front of the stage in age-old homage to the latest bard while the acrobat spins
on her rope two body lengths above their heads. Three ornately sequined,
coin-draped, silk-clad belly dancers weave a rhythmic path through the audience
with an earthy, sensual physicality, following the retreating cops while the
aerialist twists and spins in graceful helices.
“How’s it going!?” white-bearded
Muzza calls from behind the counter, enthroned on a director’s chair that
straddles a huge snaking root from the two hundred year old fig which
buttresses the mobile caravanserai. Each night the Chai Tent houses squadrons
of crashing night owls who can’t make it to their tents, or don’t have any
other place to lay their heads. The sage-like elder isn’t expecting an audible
reply, so Ram merely nods. “Already ready for the parade, I see!”
“Enough time for a chai – or three
if you don’t mind.”
“Good timing,” says Muzza, “it’s
perfect right now! Cow or soy?”
“Cow.” The prince selects the
lesser of two evils; the dire toxic reality behind soy’s bright corporate
promise has finally become evident, and now the hippy cognoscenti are aware
that unfermented soybeans strip the human body of its capacity to absorb
minerals from food, just as the plants they spring from strip nutrients from
the rocky exoskeleton of Gaia. Soy products seemed like such a good idea at the
time – during the short-sighted, fraudulent ‘green revolution’ that fed a
fraction of yesterday’s world at the expense of tomorrow’s, and only succeeded
in entrenching arms manufacturers in profitably toxic ‘agribusinesses’ that
destroy the world’s ecosystems… and besides, the Chai Tent uses organic cow’s milk.
He barters for three steaming mugs
and carries them to the cushioned floor where his associates are locked in
conversation with a young barefoot dreadlocked woman half clad in an ornate batik
sarong. “Ah, Ram’yana!” Phico hails, “Thank you! Do you know if that harp is up
and running yet?”
“You mean ‘HAARP’ as in ‘Angels
Don’t Play This HAARP’?”
“That’s the one.”
Ram’yana is again reminded of how
much verbal communication is merely a holographic carrier signal for much more
deeply enriched concepts, carrying telepathic messages within encapsulated
shorthand - signals that usually pass unnoticed and unremarked in all
apparently mundane conversation. He passes the cups to the men and hands his
own to the woman who accepts it gratefully. “It’s been up and running –
supposedly being tested – for about a year now,” he replies.
“Thanks. So what’s it stand for?”
asks Wanji. “‘Hypnotic Attack Array Removing Primates’, or what?”
“‘Hyperspace Activation Arc
Resonating Portal’, perhaps?” the unknown woman suggests.
“‘High Altitude Auroral Research
Project’, I believe,” Phico explains. “It’s capable of doing many things. It
alters the local frequency of the ionosphere, for a start, and therefore alters
the threshold of alpha and beta waves in the human brain.”
“And it can fuck up the weather,
too, can’t it?” Wanji asks.
“A full-scale demonstration of
concept would raise or lower the atmospheric envelope,” Ram elucidates as a
flock of rainbow lorikeets call loudly to one another overhead, “and that would
automatically alter the Schumann Layer and the resonant frequency girdling the
ionosphere…”
“...as well as creating localised
high or low pressure systems and possibly a whole lot more,” Phyco continues.
The acrobat spins and contorts her fine, lithe body between earth and sky as
the mandolin trills like a metallic songbird.
“Tell me,” Ram asks between sips
of steaming chai, “have you noticed an increase in apathy lately?”
“What,” Wanji smiles, “you mean
like my get-up-and-go has got up and went? Funny you should mention that…”
“I’ve heard a lot of people saying
the same thing lately,” the dreadlocked feral adds, “like everyone feels
unsettled, like they don’t know what to do. Or want to do anything. So most of
them are just keeping on doing what they normally do, but noticing that
something’s not right… or something. Is that what you mean?”
“I thought it was just my libido,”
surmises the clown.
The woman’s brown eyes twist to
Ram’yana beneath the puzzled furrows of her frown. Wise eyes, Ram reflects as he nods; she continues after a sip of
her tea. “A few people have mentioned the same thing. So what do you think it
is?’
“What do you think?” he bats the question back to her.
She looks down into the swirling
chai. “It feels to me like everyone realises that the game is about up, you
know? Everyone knows the climate is up shit creek and the weather’s gone crazy
and water’s running out and food’s probably next. So they’re all kind of in shock, you know?”
“I’ve noticed the same thing,” Phico
agrees as she silences herself with a sip, “and that could be what’s behind it…
but it could be something else, as well.”
“It’s a little like the shock that
everyone felt during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Remember that?” Ram’yana asks
the alchemist, noting the blank looks from the younger man and woman. “You’re a
Baby Boomer, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, I know what you
mean - now that you’ve jogged my memory,” Phico agrees. “Everyone was in shock
and just kept going to work – well, most of them – and that was one major
genesis of the mass social changes that followed, I reckon…”
“…During the ‘dawning of the Age
of Aquarius’ in 1962 – just after the big line-up…” Ram’yana reminds him.
“That’s right,” Phico avers, “but
I think this is something different as well. Sure, everyone seems to be
grokking what the hippies and environmentalists have been telling them for
yonks, but this is somehow different…. A deliberate, mass hypnotic zoning out…”
“‘Angels don’t play this harp,’”
Ram says.
Phico eyes him seriously. “You may
be right.”
“So you think this American array
in what, Alaska, is responsible?” Wanji asks.
“The two phenomena seemed to start
around the same time,” Ram replies noncommittally, still facing Phico. “You
know what Burkie said about all this years ago?”
Phico enfolds the cup in his
fingers, eyeing the shaman over his broth. “John Burke you mean? I thought this
was after his time?”
“Or he was before his, perhaps,” Ram’yana smiles from
beneath his white winged cap. “He said that it was equally possible that a
great ‘error’ could occur – that the perpetrators could easily accidentally strum the right harmonic key to bring about full
resonance, instead of creating global hypnosis…”
“And enlighten everyone
accidentally! Of course!” Phico laughs. “What an intriguing possibility…”
The impromptu gathering of new
Illuminati ponders the moment, regarding the concept and vision that fill their
momentarily multifocal consciousness with a unified withheld breath. The
fragrant chai infuses them with fiery inspiration and the acrobat twists and
turns, spiraling around the rope suspended from the ancient fig tree while the
band plays on…
*
A True Story
- R.A.
* Note: This conversation took place before the
Fukushima disaster.
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