She's also done endless therapies, from Hare Krishna detox programs, Vipasana Meditations, acupuncture, crystal massage, psychic readings, etc etc. Whoever crosses her path with a glib tongue can get their palm lined as she has a kind mother to pay for a lot of it who wants to keep her daughter happy with constant healing. A leopard finds it hard to change its spots I hear, some of us get madder as we get older.
He must’ve had low self-esteem for he enthused that ICE made him feel like Superman, king of the world, no worries, all problems solved with a little smoke. Straight, in the harsh daylight, he crashed and was nothing.
Yet he had character, was kind of fun to be with when he got going with the wisecracks and Arthur felt sad that the guy couldn’t hold his act together. He had two teenage daughters that should’ve given him real reason for living and achieving but the lure of the intense ICE high was too great and he succumbed like Pavlov’s dog at the ding of a bell.
I remember the night me and a gang of rogues ate Goldtop mushrooms on the edge of town then rambled up the main street heading for a party, tripping out of our heads. My friends got ahead of me and I saw an open doorway all lit up down a tree-lined pathway, a community hall wherein I thought the party was raging. I staggered into the front of the hall and up to a podium upon which stood a matriarch in white lab coat, with pointer upraised at a diagram, who stopped in mid-sentence and stared at me. I turned to face a hall full of seated women, farmer's wives, hippies, shopkeepers, teachers, all of them pregnant in variegated styles of smocks. They all turned their gaze upon me and gaped as one, and I spun in confusion, shivered in dislocation, wondered if I was hallucinating the music and stupidly said, "Where's the party?"
They turned to each other, frowning, annoyed, they pointed to the door and a few laughed at me. I couldn't understand why they were so staid, clinical, other-worldly normal, and everything shining white hot bright. Then I noticed a huge banner strung up on a wall and, through the waves of glittering sub-atomic particles, I made out the words, "Nimbin Expectant Mothers Support Group" and I flashed the reality of the scene, this was not the raging freak party I hoped for. I said, "Sorry!" and fled, into the shifting animated murals of Nimbin proper, and I did find my friends where the music was at, shaking their asses, laughing at my cheeky cat nature.
The Missionary Mary and Jesus duo, Mum and Dad, with their kids behind, filed out of the Rainbow, faces downcast and hard, as if Satan had thwarted their fondest desires, and thankfully I never saw them again.
He’d ruined the trip on previous occasions, lying about his drug usage and getting stopped by the cops for reckless driving. It was a waste of time him fixing upon every drug-counseling service when he was always busting at the slightest encouragement, such as the chat up he gets from his mates at the meetings. He also claimed he was worked up over my visiting from Sydney and it made him want to have fun, like we seemed to be having. I groaned, now it was my fault.
We got to the Rainbow Café, not too different to how it always was, painted psychedelic hippie kitsch with about thirty dealers hawking the green stuff in the near vicinity. Sylvia went out back to their toilet while I waited in the alleyway next to the Nimbin Museum. This was where most of the pot-dealing action went down. I was confronted by a mob of determined hustlers all looking upon me as a possible customer, ready to peel the shirt from my back, but I wasn’t interested, the area was too much under police surveillance.
The Kooris of the area were in their element, at one with the spirit of the place. They owned the traditional lands under the Nimbin Rocks and, for all the harassment from the local cops, came and went at their leisure. They loved smoking their yandi and were masters of its healing lore. Nimbin was one of the few places Arthur visited in Australia where Aboriginals and whites mixed in a united community, relaxed and caring. He hoped the history of racist antipathy in the rest of the country did not flare up here in a tussle over territory. The Kooris opened every Mardi Grass Festival with dance, singing, smoke ceremony and didgeridoo and were an integral part of the whole hippie alternative milieu.
I supposed it was an attempt at trying to always be beautiful and hold out against entropy but it wasn’t working. She also stuffed her face as an added consolation and got fatter and fatter in her old age. Finally, only a fungus faced flip-out like Zan would put up with her craziness on a regular basis.
And yet, like all life-forms, we need love, and the freedom to go about our business, raise families, work, and live in peace, including me, so whom am I to put the poor old human race down? Live and let live, if only all the world thought this way; many of the hippies in Nimbin town seemed to.
I don't drink alcohol or take hard drugs, I only have ganjha to relax with. I dream of a time I can go into a shop and have 300 hundred varieties of the plant to choose from, the one that suits my biochemistry and psyche perfectly, that doesn't make me paranoid or mad, that doesn't zombify me into stupefaction, but gives me a sweet, laid-back euphoria so that I seem to float on a cloud listen to a celestial choir. It's an absolute curse that those bastards of the LAW feel they have the right to tell me how I should relax in the privacy of my own living room. That's why I curse them with the strongest term possible, "Fascists".