Platypus Dreaming: ... a Prophecy

By Graeme Innes

A prophecy brings common sense to the confusion of modern life, responding to its challenges in local and international conflict resolution, through remembering lifes composition of widely divergent yet related parts. An alternative view of lifes complexities, this novel is a modern-day take on an ancient way of seeing, placing the reader as the central character in a set of real-life circumstances, and confronting them wherever they find themselves. In many ways, the book is an initiation, taking you on a fascinating journey while deepening your comprehension of who and what you are and your place in the scheme of things. Disoriented and dissatisfied by the trite answers provided by compromised teachers and politicians alike, and perhaps lacking the experience and wisdom to judiciously negotiate life in the confusion of a world of apparent plenty, most people find themselves struggling to find representatives whose wise application of intelligence is the currency of their decision making. Where a balance of feeling and intuition equally weighted by logic and reason is absent, humanity is forced to conclude that societys rulers, whether financial or political, have abandoned representing lifes common destiny as the foundation stone of humankinds finest aspirations. When morality is applied differently in different settings to gain advantage and cultures have a variety of spiritual and existential beliefs pitted one against the other, the step to terrorism, though seemingly incomprehensible, appears understandable to a mind pushed to its extremes, as it attempts to reconcile that which is apparently irreconcilable. Without prizing humanity as an interwoven part of natures fabric, people are caught between a rock and hard place, but it is precisely there that Platypus Dreaming inspires hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503504509

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Copyright © 2015 by Graeme Innes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/06/2015

Xlibris

1-800-455-039

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Contents

Foreword

Completing the Circle

Acknowledgements

About the Author

FOREWORD

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T he birthing of Platypus Dreaming .  . . a prophecy follows fifty years observing humanly induced life-complicating dramas around the world, including in the place people in Australia like to call home. Lessons available from our ‘birth’ countries have been ignored, and instead the country belonging to the Originals continues to be unrelentingly plund ered.

What we daily witness is the result of generations of colonisation across the globe, disturbing all native cultures, through misguided beliefs concerning the nature of intelligence. Arrogant misconceptions have been used to mask a seeming insatiable greed with scant regard for the host culture’s needs or wishes.

Wars being constantly played out on various continents and islands across the hemisphere are the outworking of interference dating back millennium. Invariably, invaders believe they know how life should be lived, better than local inhabitants whose spirits are often fused with land. To our peril, the wisdom they’ve accumulated over eons, interacting with the natural world which created them to be who they are, has been contemptuously dismissed.

No one group, race, or religion appears responsible. The origins lie back in distant histories and the tangle of threads aren’t to be followed; however, what we can see IS NOW, and the responses demanded appear clear to see for those without ambition for power and wealth, to those who wish to live in a world marked by wholesome interaction.

This book hasn’t resulted from the study of other people’s books or goal-driven endeavor but was guided by advice from a writer who came to fame during the 1960s and 70s. Following a lucky encounter during the dark days of Apartheid in South Africa, we travelled through the Kruger Park together. I was his tour guide and he my mentor.

James Michener’s manner wasn’t insistent like that of other people, whose interest often appeared driven by a need to tick off species sightings as ‘Done’. No, he was unassuming and quiet, contentedly drinking in the environment without apparent preference for the spectacular over that of an open clearing.

When quizzed as to his path to become a world-renowned writer, he considered his answer over three days of persistent, inquisitive questioning. His answer: ‘I had no idea what to do in life. I was a directionless traveller, island hopping across the Pacific, a bum.’ He said he often recounted stories to the people he met about travels and adventures he’d had, and then around the age of forty-five, someone asked him why he didn’t write a book.

He replied that he couldn’t, he didn’t have the necessary writing experience. One day, about twelve months later, he woke with a book laid out in his mind. He typed it up and sent the manuscript to a publisher who sent it back. Apparently, it arrived with a comment, which read something like ‘It’s much too long. You’re a great storyteller but a shit-house writer. Send it to a publishing house with the editorial facilities to turn it into a good book.’ It became a best seller.

His advice: don’t worry about studying for a job because jobs come and go, generally according to other peoples’ ambitions or the state of the economy. They’re often boring jobs to which you wouldn’t be suited. Go travelling or at least do things that interest you. One day you’ll find your passion, and if it’s a writer you’re meant to be, and you want to write something half decent to enhance the lives of others, you’ve got to have experience worth passing on. Somehow, I doubt you’d be content with writing dust collecting manuals, which nobody really needs read. It was food for thought.

I grew experientially rich, trying things out, sometimes making a fool of myself, wondering all the while who or what this self was meant to be, or was there even such a thing as self. Slowly I learnt there was only learning and learnt that every now and then that I, along with the rest of human kind, would be stripped back to the foundations to start anew. I realised I could learn skills to do anything I wanted, understanding that every new occupation came with new people and a different environment. But what was it that I truly wanted? Finally, the curtain dropped; it wasn’t so much about what I wanted but about what life wanted of me, about my ability to read her signs.

We’re surrounded by worldwide cultural, political, ecological, environmental, and social chaos. Collectively, we need embark on a new phase, travelling unchartered waters, fueled by love, the power of dreams, and on the wings of prayer, rebirthing to wholeness and Oneness.

This book was written with the intention of extending understanding of human function and responsibility within nature and to foster greater insight into our composite selves. Living amongst Australia’s Originals gently but determinedly turned Graeme’s life upside down and inside out; it was clear to him that the colonists had more to learn about being human from the Originals than they had to learn from ‘modern civilisation’.

Accused of being self-deluded by having a misguided belief in the ‘noble savage’, Graeme’s schooling hadn’t prepared him for the confrontation with the fictional self, identified beyond the reaches of technologically assisted environments.

As a mid-thirty-year-old baby on a remote desert community, Graeme re-experienced learning to walk by integrating the real formations in nature, according elements their rightful places at a table of interdependent and codependent equals.

During a period of prolonged earth burial at a protest designed to prevent road construction at the Daintree in North Queensland, he realised that ease of movement through ‘thin’ atmosphere sustained the illusion of separateness from our composite earth elements.

A false sense of ‘ownership’ over feelings and visual senses was developed without acknowledging the complete dependency on the materials providing the foundation (in) formation for them. This raises the question: are they ‘our’ feelings or feeling responses from life’s foundation, or is it possible that the feelings arose within a contiguous organism of which we are all part?

Our children have become unwitting pawns within a delusional field of manipulation. Adults find reality too hard to bear and are seemingly unable to apply self-inclusive logic within the much larger constituent field. Intelligence is native to all life’s component parts.

Australia’s Originals traditionally functioned within a broad field of interdependent components as receivers, integrators, and transmitters, facilitating the well-being of myriad species, maintaining a custodial role in an ever-changing field that constitutes the much larger organism.

Western man has developed a coercive, restrictive education program akin in mental cruelty to the physical binding of limbs, laming and maintaining servitude on behalf of small elite groups supporting largely invisible, virtual leaders.

Governments and their corporate sponsors operate a supposedly democratic hierarchal system which denies people the right to respond according to the (in) formation of their living intelligence. Individuals are bound to act out the wishes of higher authorities, even when the undertakings run contrary to ‘right action’ and fail to embody the best intelligence available, simply so the leaders maximise their power and profits.

Platypus Dreaming… a prophecy entreats people to resume their places as equal, non-belligerent codependents at the Godhead, dreamers and custodians whose job is to ensure Creation’s continuity.

Namaste (I see you in me)

COMPLETING THE CIRCLE

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If I am pregnant, then I will kill it, her matter-of-fact tone barely masked the rising tide of concern surging through her mind as it sought to comprehend the powerful mixed messages with which it was being assaulted.

Making matters worse, everything Talking Stone said appeared to compound her confusion. It was clear he loved Sigh Ohyea without reservation. He’d been unable to account for the powerful sense of connection he’d experienced from their first encounter. In bed, he’d experienced their lovemaking as virginal and full, despite the wealth of previous sexual encounters to which he had to admit.

At a three-day forest rave party they had attended shortly before the Rainbow Gathering, they’d been woken by insistent, thumping music, a few hours before dawn.

He lightly shook Sigh Ohyea, whispering, I haven’t said anything like this to a woman for years, not since before the birth of my daughter Africa. You know, I’d happily have a baby with you. Talking Stone cuddled her, his arm reaching over, his hand cupping her firm breast, nipple caught between the second and third fingers, swollen.

He could still smell the scent of her snail-trail that clung to his beard from their earlier lovemaking, during which it was as though they had dissolved, becoming one, in some amazing cosmic union.

Sigh Ohyea was suddenly wide awake, the candle still burning, lighting her beautiful moon face as she craned around to look at Talking Stone, who noticed the look of surprise as she exclaimed, You must be crazy. The words were tinged with warm feelings of contentment reflecting an unstated acknowledgement of the high regard in which he held her.

You’re right. I probably am crazy. But it’s a divine madness. I’d marry you and have your baby. Talking Stone was surprised to hear the words spilling from his normally carefully framed and vetted language store. Was he hearing himself right over the tapestry of techno music? This forest rave party had been the staging ground for their passionate lovemaking, the awakening of seed dreaming as their auras fused to become one, causing him to feel lost in a sea of sensations. Was this his fanny and her cock that was giving such pleasure? As she penetrated, his fanny sucked in, seeking to seduce the seed into life. Their boundaries had dissolved, the real seemed unreal, and the unreal real. Neither of them had taken drugs; they were simply high from life.

Earlier that evening, Talking Stone explained to her that sometimes while making love, he liked to imagine himself having the fanny and suggested perhaps she might like to feel her way into possessing the responsive penis in a role reversal designed to better understand sexuality and expand creation consciousness.

Later during their lovemaking, Talking Stone’s world shifted by a hundred and eighty degrees. He understood that during midlife, he’d finally become one with the responsiveness of his penis which previously seemed to have had a mind of its own. If one of his lovers had dared suggest he drop his performance-oriented sexuality, he would have wondered what they were talking about, no matter the rightness of the observation.

The onset of midlife had finally placed him on a collision course with his feeling self. At times, anguished weeks extended into tormented months, tears flowing freely, washing away the hurts and disappointments as he slowly came to terms with the information his feelings and intuition had provided, aspects of which had lain dormant since puberty, when testosterone-driven ego crushed his sensitivity in order to foster competitive manliness.

Without a woman in his life for the previous couple of years, Talking Stone had felt the arrival of Sigh Ohyea to be a cosmic blessing for a work well done, because he’d treated midlife with a seriousness others reserved for university studies. He desperately wanted wholeness; for without it, there was no real chance of putting the world to right. No matter how else things may have looked, they seemed to necessarily include the fertility cycle. If people could only step aside from their need to control nature and dance with her purpose, Talking Stone believed the fertility cycle could automatically restore life to a healthy balance.

Her words rang in his ears. If I am pregnant, then I will have to kill it. Her simple utterance sounded as a deafening screech, causing all his neurological pathways to short-circuit, constricting and piercing his heart.

You’re the most beautiful caring man I’ve been with. You may be strong in male and female attributes, but I’m not ready to have a baby, and it’s my decision because it’s my body. I don’t want to have a baby, yours or any other. Her words cut Talking Stone to the quick. His balls felt about to be squeezed in a vice of typical male control as exercised by an angry woman who felt her life reeling, wildly threatened at the prospect of having an unwanted baby.

You’re too good, the most decent man I’ve been with and probably ever likely to be with. I’m a bitch and somehow deserve to be with a bastard. I thought I would improve by being with someone nice, but I can’t, and I’ll just end up destroying you. I’m not ready to have a baby, and I won’t have yours, so forget it.

Talking Stone plunged into the deepest recesses of his mind which had made its peace with acceptance of the possibility of creating new life when he made love. Over many years of so-called performance sexuality, which he conceded was mainly to please his lovers, he also sought to maintain control of fertility by not ejaculating wantonly.

He’d done without condoms for over twenty years, even through times of rampant promiscuity during his youth when he’d been lucky to remain disease-free, and throughout that time, he’d created two deliberate pregnancies, one of which resulted in a medically advised abortion due to unrelated health issues.

Talking Stone was well aware he couldn’t afford to be smug about his disease-free sexual history because the path he followed required constant vigilance; however in his mind the use of condoms, the use of a mechanical barrier, plastic-coated sex he called it, was the act of a man unwilling to take responsibility for his sexuality.

A man using condoms could surely not be in touch with the full extent of his feelings, and the situation could only be further exacerbated by their usage, unless prior circumstances indicated a possibility of contracting disease. Certainly, after a few early experiences with condoms, Talking Stone weighed up the pleasure of orgasm against the loss of sensitivity that resulted through their use and decided withdrawal before ejaculation was infinitely better than feeling as though he was making love through a raincoat.

From an early age, he recognised sexuality as an important part of his life, but the prevention of unwanted pregnancy required he become fully attuned to the sensations in his body. This understanding allowed him to gently slow his approach to climax, causing the intensity of arousal to subside, prolonging the duration of the lovemaking, subsequently giving rise to greater pleasure.

He learned he could come and avoid unwanted pregnancy by disassociating the pump action that caused the spurt of sperm or withdraw prior to coming and still enjoy the sensation of full physical ejaculation or simply refrain from coming altogether.

God knows, he thought, there had to be something in this understanding. The fact that a number of lovers, over the years, had believed themselves unable to orgasm and had orgasmed in spectacular style surely merited giving further consideration to this proven understanding of sexual interplay.

Talking Stone believed patience combined with careful observation of feeling was the key to greater sexual satisfaction for both partners. A willingness to play uninhibitedly with one another, without necessarily seeking sexual release, or finding sexual release in some other equally pleasurable way that created a platform for both partners to take full responsibility for their interplay, each willingly providing themselves as a platform for exploration to gain the understanding of nuance of feeling through which they could learn to satisfy.

He remembered the last time he’d acceded to a request to use condoms and that afterwards he’d sworn never to use them again. Not only was he unsatisfied by the diminished feeling of plastic-coated sex but felt masturbation would provide greater personal satisfaction.

He was sure when the contact through natural body lubricants was denied, a sense of interpenetrating auras was lost, and with it, a much deeper exchange of body-stored information was denied, preventing lovemaking’s magic from changing one’s life forever. With the possibility of fertility denied, the wider fertilising agents of life change were also precluded from creating life giving change, with ramifications far greater than the simple process of preventing a baby.

The inter-active phase of human conception was not limited to the creation of a new baby, but the transmission of body stored information was concerned with a renewal of both partners at a cellular level. He remembered that always after lovemaking, his whole body vibration changed, whereas pleasuring himself only ever provided relief from inner tensions.

Almost a week had passed, the Rainbow Gathering having come and gone, before Talking Stone found himself sitting alone on an expansive lawn, valleys dropping away to the coast with framing granite cliffs to one side, gleaming in the bright moonlight. It was yet another mid-spring party, but somehow, the gathering wasn’t sparking his enthusiasm for social interaction. Early during the evening, he’d shared a couple of joints with friends, then a little later, he ate a small magic mushroom causing a lightly heightened sense of awareness and colour, so it wasn’t unsurprising he preferred to remain alone communing with nature.

Not even the drummers, who’d quickly found their way to synchronicity of beat, were able to disturb his reverie as they wove their musical story to enchant the dancing revellers, the sound travelling with crystal clarity across the rolling hills into the valleys beyond.

This was a place where people felt glad of their lives, where the rolling hills and valleys opening from the mountain range behind Byron Bay, were a jewel whose abundant lifestyle and fertile nature, meant few of life’s wider problems impacted on the tranquil lives of the inhabitants. Here, Talking Stone experienced timelessness without conscious awareness of thought, just occasional images forming and dissolving, growing out of the natural resplendence to which words could only poorly attest.

It was in the depths of this reverie, in the ebb and flow of this tranquil imagery, that Talking Stone was jolted into full consciousness, his eyes wildly ablaze from the charge of realisation flashing through the cells of his body. One moment he’d been experiencing lush and verdant images of nature, when an unfamiliar voice rose up from the depths of his being.

Almighty One, Savior of saviors, Creator of all things, there is one who was divinely conceived who came through me and implanted in Sigh Ohyea, whose life stands on the threshold, about to be cut short. Again the words rang clear in his mind, ‘If I am pregnant, I will have to kill it’. I know this child spirit was ordained in grace, so I offer my body, your vessel, perfect in its imperfection as ready recipient co-vessel for this spirit manifestation to share, adding to all that which is presently housed in this body temple for the greater benefit of Creator’s purpose.

As mysteriously as the voice arose, it disappeared, and where time had melted into eternity, consciousness once again restored the temporal condition of separation. The formless, weightless place where Talking Stone had been transported again assumed earthly dimensions, and the insistence of the drums commanded attention.

Barely perceptible to Talking Stone himself and beyond the gaze of life’s forms, a subtle shift had taken place. A lone voice had called through the night, arising from the depths of his soul, ushering in world-shifting changes.

His mind raced as it attempted to piece together the events appearing as a revelation of divine will. He remembered the fateful night when Sigh Ohyea, overcome by remorse at the almost callous manner in which she’d emotionally beaten him, sought to make amends for her disproportionate show of frustration.

She’d been devastating in her assault, and he had withered in confusion as he grappled with this latest disharmony. It appeared as though the thing she most wanted, once attainable, was to be trivialised, like a cripple sensing salvation at hand, spurning it in the last moment, in a fury from remembered hell.

That evening, noting her foolishness reflected in the pained face of her friend and lover, she tried to soothe the storm-whipped waters. Talking Stone was lying naked on the bed; the full heat of the day’s sun, far from having dissipated, was trapped in the quartz rock that was the land’s foundation.

Looking through the clouds of her own confusion, keen to make amends for the injustice she’d committed, and seeing his normally smiling face looking careworn and tortured, Sigh Ohyea climbed onto the bed and took him in her arms. She understood no words would placate because there hadn’t been any apparent sense in her outburst, so it was unlikely they would heal the wound.

She slid her leg over his, her sarong parting, to allow her nakedness to gently caress. His body was unyielding, almost traumatised and unable to respond, as her arm silently caressed his strong brown back, her fingers sliding down the crack of his well-formed buttocks. She pressed in closer, slowly pushing her fanny along the length of his thigh, the pressure on her pubic bone gently forcing her labia apart, her warm musky juices wetting his thigh with promise and filling his nostrils with an irresistible perfume.

Her movements were persuasive; Talking Stone’s body slowly melted before her unexpected passion. He tried to speak, but Sigh Ohyea stopped him, planting her lips firmly on his, smothering the unformed words, her tongue searching and dancing around the corners of his lips, slowly sliding across to gently lick and probe the lobe of his ear. Almost against his will, Talking Stone’s cock swelled against her belly. Keeping her slick fanny thrust against his leg, she slid down its length, easing her treasure trove over the knuckle of his big toe, as she continued to lick and suck, her tongue darting and gliding along the shaft of his penis.

Unhurried, her eyes following the expressions on his face; she slowly worked him towards his peak, then skillfully, gently easing the pressure, allowed his wave to subside, as she slid the source of her own pleasure back and forth across the knuckle of his toe, occasionally pushing more firmly, causing it to sink between the folds, then sliding back to gently massage the pearl at the centre of her pleasure.

She was ready and all his resistance gone. Her fingers grasped his penis, continuing the rhythmic pumping as she withdrew her mouth, easing her way up his body. She slowly rotated her hips, maintaining a constant contact, her swollen nether lips causing her to squirm in pleasure, as the engorged head of his penis gently pushed into her waiting fanny. In one deft movement, she slid her womanhood over the length of his shaft, pulling him close, rolling them both over in a single movement.

Talking Stone was in no hurry for this wave of unexpected bliss to pass, caressing her as a musician playing a fine musical instrument, his orgasm building to an almost irresistible pitch and then allowing his urgency to subside, focusing on building her orgasm; his penis probed ever deeper in her yielding yoni, glove-like and velvet, the mouth of her uterus a gently muscular sponge dancing with the penetrating strokes, drawing him into the depths of her being.

Her whole body thrilled, electric in anticipation of his movements; she was open and ready to implode in the magic of dissolution, her orgasm slowly rippling back and forth across her stomach, her muscles alternatively squeezing and releasing with a tingling that soon gathered in momentum, spreading through her body like a searing fire. Talking Stone whispered endearments, and her ecstasy diffused as a wave breaking over a pebble-strewn beach.

Now it was his turn. The stroking became more intense, and her body was still thrilling. Sigh Ohyea was no longer content to simply nibble; she was almost frenzied as she sucked his lower lip, biting firmly. It was an exquisite, almost satisfying pain. Talking Stone was ready to explode. Slowing him, her movements were deliberately less demanding, so both could savour the intensity before he withdrew, causing his seed to splash across her thighs . . .

But this time, she uncharacteristically grabbed his retreating butt and drew him deep into her yoni, a place of fusion, drawing out his juices with a squeezer-like motion of her muscles, causing him to explode. His body pulsated and shuddered, the release splashing his seed inside the palace of dreams. The wave of intensity passed, sweat-drenched, flushed, and suffuse, they lay quietly in one another’s arms.

Here at the gathering, Talking Stone was sure that despite her occasional rapid mood swings, Sigh Ohyea was content, her spirits soaring with each new encounter, as she stepped through old fears, challenging herself by roaming in unexplored territories.

Coming from a European culture that often dealt with the wider aspects of life by hermetically sealing them out of the domestic environment, Sigh Ohyea often found herself confronted with conditioned inhibitions which arose sporadically over the course of time. Empowered by stepping through the fears, her body glowed with an intensity that caused others to beam with the same joy of life she was reflecting. Never before had she carried such an infectious, radiant vibrancy.

Talking Stone remembered the first of these fears had manifested in the form of a small spider which had long lived at peace above his bed. She’d cried out with a start, leaping from the bed, demanding the spider’s removal.

I’m sorry. She’s been one of my companions for months now, and you’ve been sharing the space, unaware of her presence for several weeks. She traps flies and other small creatures, and that spot above the window is her home. She does no harm, so you’ll just have to get used to her. If you really want to live in this country, you’re going to have to make friends with all sorts of critters, even accepting some capable of causing extreme discomfort, he had warned.

"You want to live in Australia because there’s a bit more unspoilt nature here, and you’ve talked about the problems of European crowding and the loss of nature and how it needs to be fixed. You seem to comprehend the situation well enough, but unless you understand ideas in action, they’ll remain intellectual trinkets, less useful than beads were to the Indians.

If we kill all the things we’re afraid of, we’ll just keep recreating the problems from Europe in Australia ad infinitum. We’ve already gone far enough down that road because of the thoughtlessness of our forebearers, not to mention the millions who still greedily seek to make their fortunes without regard for other species’ needs. Where I can maintain or enhance the conditions supporting many of the non-human species, I will, and where not, I’ll at least try to make friends with those already there.

If Sigh Ohyea had been unaware of the depth of feeling Talking Stone maintained concerning these matters, her ignorance of his commitment to species rights was soon to get a full blasting. Sigh Ohyea knew he was right, but her fear still outweighed her understanding. If it comes anywhere near me, then I’ll kill it, she threatened.

Talking Stone felt as though he hadn’t been heard and his buttons were being deliberately pushed. If you kill a harmless spider, where are you going to stop? Next, it’ll be the native rats and snakes, not to mention the fire ants or any of the dozens of other species. The spider stays, he countered her threat with an unspoken but unmistakable one of his own.

Despite the disquiet she was feeling, there was nothing for it but a reluctant acceptance of the situation as she surveyed the options available in this semi-desert setting, which was potentially far more threatening than his gypsy caravan which was still the stuff of her dreams. In some way, she couldn’t help, but see she’d made herself a prisoner to her own fantasy fears and was now experiencing a workshop of her own making; it was a perfect teacher for the conditioned control freak she was.

I guess I really do need to learn surrender, so I’ll try to trust it’s the harmless spider you say it is, she sighed and slowly allowed her body to relax.

Forget about trying to trust what I say, and follow your own experience because it’s your experience you need to trust.

The kettle was beginning to sing as Talking Stone peeled and sliced the last piece of fruit for the salad that was to be their breakfast. They ate in resigned silence both sensing neither one of them deliberately sought to hurt the other in this confrontation of values. The relationship was still young, and both were only dimly aware of one another’s conditioning histories, those packages of life experience which defined each of their lives.

Sigh Ohyea had grown up in a small village by European standards, a forest setting in southern Germany; however, through her travels, she’d become more aware of how passive the nature of her home territory had been, a territory which, in her youth, had seemed abundantly alive when compared with life in the vast cities.

The countryside had been made over in many different ways, over generations of development and warfare, so much so that Sigh Ohyea couldn’t help but see nearly all natural orders had disappeared in the name of agriculture and urbanisation which the vast industrial cities had spawned.

Apart from a previous visit to a tourist resort in Thailand, her Australian travels had taken her to European lookalike places that were rapidly spreading along the country’s coast. Until recently, she mistakenly believed her travels had taken her to untamed places that were teeming with life, but now it was apparent they’d all been sanitised, and for her to experience real wilderness required a conscious stepping away from the civilised trappings of discreet fences and boardwalks that tame many dunes and remnant forest areas near towns and cities, controlling the degree of interaction with nature.

By contrast, Talking Stone had grown up in a small country town in rural Australia, his parents having made him well aware of the period when government policy required landholders to clear land and make it agriculturally productive. In his childhood, woodcutters still clear-felled huge tracts of forest near the area where he lived and played. At that time, everyone said it was good for the economy.

He knew that generations of farmers employed bulldozers linked together by chains, dragging massive steel balls through the dry Mallee bush to clear tens of acres each day. The land had been a habitat to countless millions of birds, animals, insects, and reptiles, and it was destroyed to create pasture for cows and grassland for cattle or arable areas for European crops.

During his school years, he’d seen old slide shows of propaganda feature films extolling the virtues of the developments, and remembering them later, could only compare them to films by Lena Riefenstahl, films Hitler had used with unenviable effect to motivate troops, directly influencing the attempted genocide of Jews.

In Australia, the results weren’t much different, except the genocide was ‘only’ officially intended to remove unspecified native cultures, notwithstanding the sub-humanly classified Aboriginal peoples, the Originals, who had respectfully built their lives in harmony with the land over tens of thousands of years.

Though systematically slaughtered by many of the new settlers under the auspices of the English colonial government, the indigenous inhabitants managed to maintain their culture of care while belonging to this unspecified class of fauna. In 1967, they were granted citizenship following a referendum that encountered impassioned opposition by many elders who expressed strong misgivings about European methods of environmental subjugation, forcing entire species to live in gulag conditions until slaughtered for their meat.

For the Originals, the land and its inhabitants constituted a collective, functional organism and intelligence, without whose basis the life-supporting fabric would collapse. This was freedom. Citizenship simply provided entitlement to behave as paid slaves or slave-masters and become estranged from living intelligence.

While still a child, Talking Stone’s family were comfortably off. Though by no means wealthy, they earned income from a small grocery store that his mother tended during the week, while his father managed a small branch of a farm supplies company. He had a good relationship with his parents but had little to do with his older brother and sister, and after school, he preferred spending time playing at Nicky Johnson’s home, making model aircraft and reciting stories they taped, including sound effects.

Sometimes after school, he met with his other friend, Dan Gibson. His father had a mechanical workshop where he taught Eddy, Dan’s older brother. The pair worked as mechanics in the small mechanical repair and panel beating shop beside their home and, in slack periods, managed to keep busy, lovingly rebuilding and restoring rusty old cars to vintage show condition.

After school one afternoon, they went to play in the workshop but finding no one there, they went next door to the Gibson’s home, wondering why no one was about. Normally if one of them was sick, the other would keep the business going.

In the kitchen, the mood was sombre. Mrs Gibson sat with her head in her hands with tear-stained eyes, while her husband and Eddy looked glum as they contemplated his army call-up notification which lay on the table.

Three weeks later, he began training for the hell his life soon became. Eighteen months after that, he was discharged on crutches, a broken young man, his legs still intact but badly shattered. A once-smiling face had become a mask of twitches and strange grimaces.

Eddy only spoke rarely about the war, his eyes watering as he described some of the scenes of conflict. The effects the war had left on him created an indelible effect in Talking Stone’s mind. The whole family had suffered in his absence, while Mr Gibson drowned his sorrow in alcohol until his son returned at which time the whole family fell into an argumentative meltdown.

While at high school, Talking Stone achieved good results, particularly in humanities, carpentry, and metal work. However, he lacked discipline in areas only marginally connected to his interests. He found academic learning easy, preferring to focus on it rather than sport, which claimed most attention from his peers. They regarded him as overly sensitive and nosey. Sometimes, he was the butt of teasing and bullying, libraries providing him with a refuge where he could bury himself in books.

From this background, he slowly developed literary skills, later finding employment as a technical writer in Sydney. There he enjoyed extending his experience and insights into language, but as time passed and he completed his second year, he became frustrated by an unchanging routine, giving him the feeling his creative instincts were being stifled. Waking up each day, knowing he would spend another boring day at the office, was like a death sentence. It was time to spread his wings and broaden his life experience in Europe.

At first, everything was fresh and exciting, and his cultural life blossomed. It was like a breath of fresh air. He didn’t feel out of place; in fact, in some sense, he felt immediately at home, quickly immersing himself in the local culture and the thriving alternative subcultures. He had a likeable personality and gained respect because of his refreshing openness and no nonsense approach to everyday problem-solving.

Girlfriends introduced him to theatre, ballet, and opera, while his passion for contemporary sound took him to clubs and discos, where he danced and enjoyed experimental electronic music. In Australia, a youthful shyness had made it difficult to meet girls, but in Germany, they often made the first move; they were attracted because he seemed exotic, almost as though his home country’s unusual flora and fauna had rubbed off on him.

Talking Stone was a third-generation Australian who had qualities, the envy of many German peers. He lacked the local social inhibitions and moved easily through the distinctly defined classes, to whom he was able to bring fresh, interesting insights born of his more open cultural experience.

Friends were surprised to see him repairing and tuning his car or building new shelving in his apartment because generally trades skills were not part of the package belonging to the professional classes, and unlike them, he wasn’t bound by perfectionism or limited by apparent lack of expertise. Without his jack of all trades skills in rural Australia, he would’ve been regarded as a social liability.

After eighteen months, the novelty of newness evaporated, and with a hard-won working fluency in the language, he was becoming aware of inner stirrings of discontent. It was as if something was gnawing at his gut. Becoming conscious of the feelings, he saw that no one particular problem stood out, but a multitude of small irritants had gathered and become a festering sore of discontent.

One night, while visiting his girlfriend Marlies Tannen, her father Dieter came into the old, high-ceiling lounge room where they were sitting. He had beer to share. Looking at him, Talking Stone estimated he was probably in his late forties, but unlike many of his generation, he insisted on using first names from the outset. His memory of the Second World War years seemed foggy, as though blocking out painful memories of a fatherless youth, his mother having worked long hours to feed her two children.

Talking Stone wasn’t sure how the topic arose, but he began talking about his brooding discontent that sometimes he fantasised using force to change what he regarded as stifling, conformity demanding institutions restricting freedom and inhibiting development of new forms of growth. He felt like a caged animal.

Dieter smiled a wry smile, looking across to his daughter. Not enough you’ve got a crazy papa? And then turning to Talking Stone, he said, "In the late Sixties and early Seventies, there was a big student movement. We felt a little bit like you feel now, only we were thousands. The Second World War was behind us and some new leaders appeared open to change. However many of the institutional petty bureaucrats still weren’t much different than those of Hitler’s day, and worse still, the press owners were supporting them, keeping the working classes ignorant and uncritical. It was a typical alliance of power and money to maintain status quo and personal advantage.

"There was mass dissatisfaction among the younger people. Students and artists found expression in a determined gathering of disaffected professionals, who became known as the Baader-Meinhof group. They were frustrated by the distorting conditioning, the oppression of the media, and they blamed bureaucrats for blocking necessary change within the wider society. The Baader-Meinhof group and Red Brigades were mostly educated, thoughtful people, determined to affect liberating change, having captured broad student support.

"Their intentions were clear. Destroy the means of oppression used to inhibit the flowering of the society. Instead of thoughtful, reasoned debate, newspapers blinded the masses with sensationalism, using sex and crime as the main content in working-class newspapers.

"The general population had become uncritical. A barrage of small signs told people what to do and how to be, like don’t walk on the grass, help the lady with the pram, and signs in bathrooms warning residents not to plug in electric razors if the room was steamy. These were unnecessary intrusions in realms better defined by common sense. This interference in personal decision-making, though not directly related, epitomised the stifling control preventing creative development. We regarded them as laughable, except they represented an unbelievable interference in our lives.

"People in positions of power regarded strong controls as necessary because the Brigade was inciting revolt. They targeted publishing houses supporting the class structures underpinning the society and its employment opportunities. The upper classes were blind to the implications these controls had within society, and they weren’t interested in free speech because it led people to developing dangerous ideas, beyond the control of the privileged few.

"The tightly organised core group had one clear aim. Destroy the public means of oppression. Destroy the presses, spare the people. Unfortunately, the Government regarded the threats to property as threats to the orderly control of society, and they were unwilling to accept the idea that these controls were a major impediment in the creative development of individuals and their cultural expression.

"Bombs detonated. At first, nobody was injured. The government overreacted, ordering police to build a crack, anti-terror squad with orders to shoot to kill. The stakes were raised, and the Brigade’s response was swift. A fatal decision was made in taking and killing hostages, causing them to lose the moral high ground where support was still plentiful. It was war. Large rewards for information leading to the leaders’ capture were offered. The upping of the stakes by the government had the desired effect.

These confrontations resulted in the liquidation of the movement. The might of the state triumphed, no matter the original idealistic intent of the group. This wasn’t my fight. It was time to go home and find another way of doing things. We’d lost the tactical advantage by using the same means of oppression that the State used. Hopefully that answers some of your questions. He looked at Talking Stone from under his bushy eyebrows.

Thanks. You’ve given me food for thought. It reminds me how lucky we are to have such an amazing playground in Australia. Here I get the feeling life revolves around maintaining historic relics, whereas in Australia we’re still working out how to best develop appropriate structures. He drained the last of his beer.

Are you guys serious about your relationship or just having a fling? Marlies’s father shot them a surprise question in a matter-of-fact tone, leaving them momentarily speechless. Quickly recognising the awkwardness he’d caused, Marlies’s father added, Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know it’s none of my business. Really, I was just wondering what’s keeping you here when you obviously feel out of place. I know where I’d be if I was you because even if you spend your entire life trying to change things here, you’ll be lucky if you see any results. He looked to Talking Stone, smiling a knowing smile, and then chuckled.

Before he’d had a chance to respond, Marlies replied, I told you, we’re just having fun together. There’s nothing wrong in that. Like I said a few times now, I’ll finish my education before I get serious about a relationship. She looked reproachfully to her father.

That doesn’t stop me being concerned for your future.

Talking Stone broke in, happy that he’d been let off the hook, Like Marlies said, we’re just having fun. I’m also trying to figure out what I really want to do with my life. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been becoming aware everything isn’t sitting right inside me, but it’s a long way home and I guess there are still places to go and things to see, so I don’t want to make a hasty decision.

The crunch time for decision-making came a few months later as she noticed how German life took its toll on Talking Stone. Not long after, Marlies terminated the relationship to devote more time to her studies, while Talking Stone took the train to Barcelona, convinced she’d broken the relationship off before her feelings clouded her judgement. To choose between family and studies or travelling to an uncertain future in Australia had been a growing dilemma for her, as she noticed the demands and limitations of European society taking their toll on Talking Stone.

After a few weeks and with his day-to-day funds running low following on-going problems transferring money from the bank in Germany to Spain, he decided it was time to hitch-hike back to Karlsruhe.

Despite enjoying the unusually warm April weather, and after watching cars driving passed, high in the Pyrenees, he began to walk along the road down the mountainside to the next village. He walked for what seemed like hours, drenched in sweat, eyes burning from the salt. Finally, he stopped and threw his backpack and sleeping bag aside.

Looking around for a place to sit, he was overwhelmed with the feeling he’d been there before. A familiar looking rock formation grabbed his attention, reminding him of a family holiday in the Blue Mountains when he was still a kid. It was as if the rocks were talking to him, reminding him of an untroubled time when he felt free and loved by his environment, a time when he hadn’t a care in the world.

As if in a trance, he walked from the road towards the formation, a voice in his head calling him, while rainbow-coloured skinks darted between the rocks. He barely noticed the sound of a car briefly stopping before pulling away at speed. He was sure the rocks were trying to tell him something he couldn’t quite figure out. His logical mind told him the thoughts were the product of solar hallucinations, but he was reluctant to let go of the comforting feeling.

It was in this state that he returned to his backpack to get a drink when he noticed his sleeping bag was gone. The message of the rocks was suddenly clear. It was time to leave, go home. It was also there that he decided to take the name Talking Stone as a key reminder to listen to his feelings.

A few weeks later, he flew to Australia.

Cooee, cooee, a familiar voice called as Talking Stone walked to the rear door of his gypsy wagon. There he was greeted by Janine, who’d recently taken a Hindu goddess’s name which now totally escaped his memory. Determined not to feel embarrassed, he fronted his failure immediately.

Janine, I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten your new name. I’d like you to meet Sigh Ohyea. Things settled down for you now that the Gathering’s finally underway? Sigh Ohyea looked up and countered the flashing smile with one of her own.

Hi, Stoney sweetie. I’ve never been big on remembering names either, she said in a sickening sugary voice. It’s Kali. I’m so sorry, but I’m here on matters of protocol. I volunteered to do the job to save you any public humiliation. I’ve been asked to tell you to remove your dog which is here against the express wishes of the Gathering’s organisers. You must’ve been aware because it was written in capitals in all the flyers. Also, some people, who’ll remain nameless, said you showed disrespect, driving your vehicle through the area reserved for posting information, despite clear signposts showing it to be a vehicle-free zone. I’m really sorry, but . . . .

Yes, I’m aware there’ve been tensions developing because a few people have been creating a storm in a teacup, so I’ll address their problems at the next full circle. I don’t feel even a little embarrassed concerning my actions but rather than going over the same ground twice, I look forward to addressing the issue at the breakfast circle.

Kali looked miffed by the response, her sympathies clearly lay with the organisers; she turned on her heel and promptly marched back to the main circle.

When she was out of earshot, Talking Stone turned to Sigh Ohyea with a broad grin. Although they were having their problems, their real bond was an admiration of one another’s spirits, I’ve got to give it to them. They’re really trying to run a tight ship. Just a bit unfortunate the rudder seems stuck, so I guess I’m going to have to try and free it up, create some room to maneuver in.

At first Sigh Ohyea appeared confused, wondering what the ship had to do with things, then smiled widely as she realised the analogy. I know I missed the last circle you spoke at, but I’m not going to miss this.

Talking Stone glanced out of the gypsy wagon, There isn’t a cloud in the sky. With perhaps over five hundred people in the circle and maybe twenty wanting to speak, it’s going to be a hot and long morning. Time for another cup of tea? he half questioned, half stated.

By the time tea was ready, Sigh Ohyea was pushing to get going, however Talking Stone was in no such hurry, determined to clean up from breakfast and tidy the wagon, creating an outer harmony, and, he reasoned, an inner clarity from which the day’s undertakings would take form.

They walked in silence, enjoying gently dancing, tall dry grasses, populating the spaces between rocks the size of houses and gum trees rising up thirty metres against the bright blue sky, casting dappled shadow at their bases. A thin track of gleaming broken quartz sand led to the main teepee circle in the middle of the gathering.

Already there were people seated, waiting patiently by the sacred fire, which was constantly tended in observance of Great Spirit, Lord of Universal Energy, holder of Mystery’s answers, and for the dedicated spirits of everyone present, who imbued the place with special significance.

One of the men stepped forward carrying a large conch shell, placing the small end against his lips. Three sustained calls echoed against the distant granite cliffs, calling everybody to attention, announcing that those who wished to talk should join the talking circle, and the others should find places in the observer circle surrounds. The proceedings were about to begin.

A small group of people from various European countries, the Americas, Asia, and Australia had inspired the vision for this Rainbow, which found its niche on this remote community, following the earlier research undertaken by Site Scouts.

It was one of these people, an Anglo-Australian with long blond dreadlocks and a flowing white kaftan, a young man in his mid-twenties with a serious face that belied his years, stood grasping the talking stick. He raised it slowly to his forehead in solemn silence, clutching it with an almost fervent zeal. The silence was prolonged, as if deliberately contrived to lend weight, building a sense of theatre.

Brothers, sisters! For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Peter. We’re gathered here at the Rainbow as the thirteenth tribe. Here to heal divisions that have arisen amongst our brothers and sisters around the world. This morning’s circle is of an unfortunately serious note, coming so early in the gathering. Last night, several people made a mockery of the sacred fire. They were no longer in control of their faculties after using liquid acid which apparently was freely available to all and sundry. He paused as if to allow the magnitude of this abhorrent behaviour to sink in.

"Flagrant disrespect has also been shown by people who came here with pet dogs, when the flyer announcing the gathering expressly stated no drugs and no pets. One of them is regarded by some as an elder. He flagrantly disregarded signs forbidding the use of motor vehicles, moving his through an area designated as a welcoming centre, and on top of that, he’s accompanied by his pet dog.

These are serious breaches threatening the integrity of this gathering. We are here to heal ourselves and live in the light of the spirit. At previous gatherings, basic principles applicable to everyone have evolved. No drugs, no pets, and no motor vehicles. Help us to maintain an environment conducive to healing. Are these then not good principles to enforce here? I ask people to speak to this in the circle. Can anyone here show these principles to be unworthy and therefore unsupportable? He raised the talking stick to his forehead with slow deliberation.

Next to speak in the circle was a bright, freckly faced, pretty young woman who took it with a religious reverence. After a suitable pause, holding the stick in prayer position, and barely able to contain her exuberance, she said. Hi, I’m Jas, short for Jasmine, and I’m just so glad to be here. It’s so wonderful. I’m just so glad to be a part of it. Great Spirit just bought me here as if by destiny, and I support everything Peter had to say. She turned, beaming a smile of support towards him, respectfully raising the stick to her forehead before passing it to her neighbour.

A sallow-skinned, long, dark, greasy-haired Englishman snatched it from her hands, thrusting it to his forehead, clutching it in the manner of a microphone. He flicked his hair to one side without real effect.

Hello, I’m Terry. Look, I’d just like to get down to practicalities. I’ve been trying to set up the kitchen for a few days already. It’s really good to see you all here, but if we’re to feed you, then I need help. The kitchen needs to be bigger and have a stable tarpaulin roof to provide shade and shelter in the event of rain. Preparing food for as many people as we’re anticipating is a big job. Everybody eating together at one time is a huge ask for the people involved in food preparation, but we can do it if we get adequate support. Anyone willing to donate their time should meet with me afterwards at the information centre.

The next recipient of the Talking Stick was a solidly built, open-faced, no-nonsense, mid-twenties Australian male. He took it and looking thoughtfully at its knob head, said, "It’s great to be here and to see so many people from different countries. I’m a bush carpenter, and I’ve built bush kitchens at other gatherings like anti-logging protests, and I’ve got my tools with me. I had intended talking about hygiene and bush toilets, but I guess this is just as important.

I’ll need three or four people, and we can get the kitchen fixed in a day. It’s nothing that bush poles and fencing wire won’t fix. He thrust the stick skyward and forcefully cried, Ho!

Calling from the observer circle, several men and two women quickly offered help for the project.

Peter, who’d opened the circle, jumped to his feet again. I wish to address the stick. It’s not right just cutting in, interrupting proceedings. Anyone who wishes to speak should sit and quietly wait for their turn. We need to observe some discipline and humility. Can we get back to the really important issue of principles? If we can’t get this satisfactorily sorted, we won’t be able to attain our objectives. Please, let’s honour the stick. He touched it reverentially to his third eye, then folding his kaftan around his chest, returned to his straight back, lotus sitting position.

Hypocrite, follow your own rules, Talking Stone muttered loudly.

A wavy-haired Jewish Israeli in his early thirties, a serious-minded man took the stick, flanked as he was by children, a boy and girl, who sat either side of him. Grasping the talking stick firmly with both hands, he raised it aloft and then with conscious intent, sought to invoke the power of the heavens. Finally, he drew it down over his third eye, allowing it to come to rest at his heart charka.

He bowed his head with eyes closed, as if in silent prayer, suddenly exclaiming, "Shalom. I am Eliav. I recently arrived from Europe to attend and help further these sacred gatherings which are showing the way of the future. We live in dark, troubled days. Greed is destroying the Earth to such an extent that we find ourselves living in the end time. Governments and financial markets around the world are collapsing and chaos reigns supreme.

"Only those who know how to live with the land in harmony, living on its fruits have a chance of survival. The rest will perish. The principles that support the gathering of the Rainbow in this, the thirteenth tribe, were established to facilitate a sound foundation. We must adhere strictly to these principles, for out of them arises the way forward.

"We cannot tolerate the drugs of Mammon, motor vehicles, mobile homes, or electronic apparatus. We need to learn to live together in one sacred hoop, down on the earth, the earth under our feet at all times. Let us say no to this scourge of drugs and drug takers. If people need drugs, then let them go back to Mammon’s world where they belong, while the rest of us heal in this sacred place, gathering around the Sacred Fire, sharing one for all and all for one.

Let us live in truth, light, and love, in harmony with nature, a model for those others who would follow in the Sacred Way. The end is nigh, and there is no room for mistakes. Choose the one right path. He paused, glancing proudly to his children, then, almost as an afterthought, added, In this camp, there are one or two elders who should know better, who have been fear mongering, but I say to you, there is no room for fear, for we are here in love and the one spirit will look after us. Ho!

It seemed that one voice gathered to become five hundred in a roar of approval, ending in a further resounding Ho!

Sigh Ohyea caught Talking Stone’s eye and smiled a knowing smile. She was sure he wouldn’t be bowed by the pressure but was unsure of the collective response he might draw. It appeared he may be fighting a losing battle for his brand of sanity.

Great Spirit has shown us the way to this gathering land where we are blessed by abundant water, wide open spaces, and adequate shade. Why then do we sit in the boiling hot sun in the middle of the day, trying to sort out issues of major importance? The Sacred Fire and circle can be the focus for meals and evening activities, but in the heat of the day, this is asking people to put aside common sense. These issues are all vitally important, as is the health of each person here, Sarah, a young fair-skinned English woman took her opportunity to join the affray.

May I address the stick, Sarah, is it? We were unable to find an adequately shaded place, large enough where everyone could sit in a single circle. Also, we didn’t wish to split the energy of clear intent away from the flame of the Sacred Fire, which burns bright for all of us, night and day. Eliav’s pleading voice of reason soothed away descent, adding, I do think people should wear hats to protect themselves.

Undeterred, Sarah returned to her complaint, Your words sound nice, even reassuring. Unfortunately, I find them devoid of common sense. You may as well say this is the way we’ve always done it. If it was good enough yesterday and the day before, why not today? Also, why is it that we’re sitting here in two circles instead of one, or is there an agenda to create some sort of hidden hierarchy?

Rising angrily to his feet again, Eliav broke in, "A hard-working group of people gathered here for two weeks in an attempt to lay the foundations for the gathering,