That ‘Beyond the Brain’ event was quite a torrent in the current. While psychedelic history was being made and the affair with my Epicenter muse was being rounded off, a friend of hers had turned up for the occasion and we hit it off straight away. Apparently she had had her eyes on me before but had respected a sister’s territory. We have a lovely time and a few days later she gives me a call:

“Don’t normally do this but I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of you.”

Visit her in her shop in The Bay and she comes up to see me in the hills.

We have a slow start, though. In the process of telling each other about ourselves, she lays her whole sexual past on me before we even touch each other – molestation as a child, raped as a teenager, troubles with ex-lovers – which can’t but make me hold back my horses somewhat. 

Would have bid my swift goodbyes, had she not also told me that she had the notion we had met in a past life. This often being said frivolously, do not immediately let her in on my immediate impression: Fiercely Irish, wild hair, it’s like looking in the eyes of Virakam again, scarlet woman extraordinaire and the mother of Crowley’s ‘Moonchild’.

It is at the ’97 Nimbin Mardi Grass that we take off. Passing through Lismore, we stop at a bottle shop, pick up a bottle of tequila to take to the green carnival and have, as she so gracefully puts it, a little ‘oopsie’. The Nimbin road must be her favourite stretch of bitumen, the way she negotiates it through the drizzle. Keep stealing glances at her great face in the dash light, her strong features, as capable as her driving.

She is a well-known clothes designer with hemp as her medium and the town is expecting her. We are invited to stay with a friend of hers. She parks the Kombi at his house, we have a few more ‘oopsies’ and head to the pub for chasers.

An Aboriginal brother challenges me to make a joint right there in front of the pub which wouldn’t worry him as much as it does me. Keeps teasing me. We clown around, touching easily. Must be our Aboriginal welcome. Mind-boggling when later finding out it that it is aunt Milly’s grandson.

We proceed to Town Hall to join the ‘Harvest Festival Ball’. Straight onto the dance floor, another one of her friends, the groovy singer in the band. Nice to be so comfortable with the in-crowd. 

A late night snack in the cozy grotto of the Bush Factory.

Back at the house we polish off the bottle before retiring to the Kombi.

There is a shyness in her kisses, shyness in mine. Have been wearing this Tai charm, a pendant of a monkey climbing up his own cock which is three times the size of him, but due to her revelations, have taken it off, not to offend her with my manhood. For someone posing as a sex magician this is not exactly an empowering act. 

Make up for it by honouring her womanhood by a good nibble on her juices, her full, delicious thighs around me, the roosters going off in the dim morning light, strangely adding excitement. 

*

Good quality tequila. Wake up as fresh as a daisy. Lift up the curtains and it turns out we are looking straight at the Nimbin Rocks.

She is good to sleep with and good to wake up with. Laid back, puffy-eyed, easy going. Needs a coffee and a ciggy to really wake up.

We shower together. She leans against the wall seductively, her ravishing body soapy slippery in the splashing water.

Our host makes us a healthy breakfast: bulgar, fresh vegies and herbs from the garden, and we hang out on his verandah for a while in the awesome presence of the Rocks.

After which it is time for a stroll through wild Nimbin town.

First one we run into is her son. Grown up here, knows the scene inside out. He is tense, wearing sunnies in the grey weather. There is a whole lot of undercover cops in town for the celebration and he is arrested here before. His mate is more relaxed. Greets the mum of his mate by puckering his lips on hers, rolling his head back, moaning in lust, putting his fist under his T-shirt making wanking movements and in rapturous ecstasy pretends to be coming right there in the middle of the street. Great performance, though the pin-point pupils give a hint as to the source of his freedom from stress.

Don’t feel too hot myself. Besides undercover squad and Aussie press, there is the American press, which is O.K., but the F.B.I. gathering ‘intelligence’? Surely this is putting a bit too much pressure on the Nimbin dope smoker. Am put to the test when in front of the pub we run into her son again, on the same spot of the Aboriginal brother’s invitation to a dare last night. Behind him is a cluster of six well-trained rednecks, all watching our little interaction:

“Can’t handle it here, anymore. Could you help me with twenty bucks to get back to Byron?”

He’s a naughty boy, could very well be the focus of their attention. There is hardness in their eyes, ready to strike at the merest provocation.

Am wearing my leprechaun T-shirt, the cheeky ogre with a pentagram on its forehead which is bound to annoy them. Am not exactly squeaky clean either but there is no backing out this time. Hand him the twenty which in the eye of the buster, is sure to be seen as half a dope deal.

Glad to be dragged into the pub by his mother.

Score a bottle of vino and get away unscathed to a bistro, to unwind and be together.

She likes a drink as well, don’t have to feel guilty for my unquenchable thirst.

A bit more loose in the hips we face the music again. To the Nimbin Museum.

What an amazing place. Easy to spend hours in this tiny building, to get absorbed in its endless little corners with myriad bits and pieces of relevant text, photographs and bush art. One can have a discreet smoke here.

Juiced up on booze and reefer to the pub for more.

Catches up with some of her old hippy mates, one of whom had – in the old days – given her the ‘Dutch’ trip that had opened her Doors of Perception. Local party animals, having survived decades of substance use, holy fire still burning, stoked up with grog and hootch. Pagans, all. Rejoicing in Harvest Abundance.

To the back of the Rainbow Cafe to dig a bit further into one another, the event we are part of as backdrop for our honeymoon. There is rock ‘n roll tonight at the new stage recently built – controversially – at the Rocks, but we gravitate towards one another and before long, find ourselves in the Kombi van.

Tease her shyness, flicking my tongue through her lips. She moves her gorgeous voluptuousness on top of me. Hold each other by the crotch. Her hands touch me so perfectly, have soon to urge her to stop. We roll on our sides. Endure some more of her delicious caress – both close to the brink – until a tremor in her vulva pulls me over, coming all over her belly. Take off my T-shirt and wipe her, smiling to myself that it is my inner leprechaun who is absorbing the spill. 

*

Heavy rain had moved last night’s main event at the Rocks to Town Hall. Aboriginal Spirituality in high esteem around here, the downpour is widely seen as an omen of discontent with the stage built so close to that power place, which is hidden in dense cloud this morning.

Well, we don’t want our special town overrun by unappreciative louts either and the rain is sure to keep the crowds away. As long as there is a dry patch for the parade. Fairly certain, with the high content of rain-dancing rainbow warriors around here. Last year the impenetrable greyness that hung over the whole of the North Coast had suddenly, at the moment of the parade, let just enough light through to put a golden shine on the colourful extravaganza. A very moving and magickal experience for everyone who was there.

We mull up, play with our host’s music collection and jive around the house. One of the Rocks which looks like the head and torso of a massive warrior with a club on his shoulder pops out of the clouds, leading us in our cloud lifting exercise. Must be time to put on our hemp jumpers and beanies and go out there.

The procession is being assembled under the capable direction of the megaphoned Michael Balderstone. Most everybody is stoned but not everyone is bold. Many hesitate to step into the international spotlight. Someone hands her a baby and she finds her place behind the hemp-leafed hipster limousine that carries her rock star friend and her band.

Being one of the paranoid ones myself, make a dash for the pub.

It does indeed stay dry for the parade, but before the speakers and green politicians have their say – similar to last year – the clouds burst.

With undeserved luck – it had been about standing up and be counted after all – find myself on the prime spot at the entrance of the watering hole, flanked by other grog hippies. By now even the man carrying the mammoth cannabis root needs a drink.

She knows where to find me.

Again, we find a quiet spot, on the verandah of the Community Centre, just off the main drag but in a world of our own. Talk away the rest of the day, only interrupted by chatter with the street kids that hang out here. There are plenty of those in this town of eccentrics – mad artists, junks, whatever – but on the other hand, the network of half sober parents and friends that keeps an eye out for each other’s children is one of Nimbin’s strengths. She always has been one of those and relates to them wonderfully.

At dusk we order pizza from next door, wash it down with the red nectar and yak some more. She has been through a lot which gives her the generous tolerance that is so endearing. With her knack of copping the radical people and events in her life, my complexities will be a breeze to her.

Nightcap at the other end of the one-street town. A local artist, sculptor of the statues in the park, is giving a rant. Apparently, there is a batch of L.S.D. going around under the name ‘Alan Ginsberg trips’ – little skeletons on the blotting paper – of which he had partaken. Had been overcome by the ‘Fears’. Had been peaking during the parade and looking back into the eyes of the world’s attention, had felt as if Nimbin was being squashed like a bug.

At home base everyone is asleep. We drink some water in the dark. She takes off her top, runs her hands over her own body. Oh, my, this really gets me.

In our mobile boudoir, without further deliberations, enter her moistness for a while, moving gently. Just idling.

Still prefer to have my shoulders between her thighs, face to face with her inner sanctum. Make contact softly but persistently, giving her a piece of my tongue until she pulls away, quivering.

*

Goodbye breakfast on that highly charged verandah. Last tribute to the gaze of the Mystical Beings so starkly rising up from the surrounding rolling green hills.

And so long to that intense little town.

Back at her place in The Bay sonny boy looks a lot more relaxed. Tell him so:

“Looked a bit tense back there.”

With a gentle smile at his mum:

“You get that sometimes. It’s much nicer to visit Nimbin during the rest of the year. A lot of the locals stayed out of the way.”

Had not been wearing his sunnies for reasons of fashion. Like many of his peers, he is in constant battle against the heroin. When some years ago Nimbin was so clamped down upon that there wasn’t a marihuana joint in town – and most of the shops for sale as a consequence – the supply of that most insidious of powders never budged. Why are these young beauties knocking themselves out from the world.

But back in my shack, sitting in the semi-darkness lit by a candle, administering grog and hootch, easing myself into the third ingredient, solitude, it sets me off into a space that is not all that different: Out from the world. 

*

She comes up to the valley for one of our parties. A bit of bonding with my fellow hillbillies. The hermit got himself a new lady.

Gets on easily. Loves the chunky fires. With the number of piss-heads around here it naturally turns into another ode to Bacchus.

Back in my decrepit temple we are too drunk for any kind of decent sex.

Waking up in her easy-going presence, the feel of her flesh. Excited but a bit queasy.

A bit better after a spew and a little more sleep.

With oranges fresh from the tree, return to her delicacies.

My hands explore her depths, seeking her.

Slow meandering day on my little deck. Teas, coffees, avocado on sourdough.

Tell her a bit about myself. Show her my ‘Moonchild’s Odyssey’ which is being serialised in Esoterica which is renamed Magick Magazine and guess what?

“I can’t read, haven’t read a book in my life.”

This strikes me as something highly remarkable if not plainly karmic. It’s not my writing that  is going to excite her. Will have to impress her without words, the way Aleister impressed Virakam with his.

To The Bay for dinner after which we move to her shop and have a jam session with her neighbours. Someone has started sharing her shop space, moved in with a collection of erotic lingerie and other sex toys. How thrilling! Can’t but buy one of her edible oils.

In her bedroom we play and titillate one another in a very funny and laid back way. It’s so easy to love her, she is so good natured. Stroke her features, the curves curling from her mouth giving her the permanent smile, admiring the strength of her nose and chin. 

*

More parties. Shares her birthday with a Nimbin friend. They will start the festivities there and will continue to celebrate her own in the Bay tomorrow.

Before picking her up, take my only possible party pants to the laundromat. Run into her son who reacts with something marvellous:

“You don’t want to appear before the goddess all smelly, do you?”

What a wonderful thing to say about your mother, to her new amour.

To the flower shop for a beaut bouquet to adorn her home.

In Nimbin, the first visit has to be to the pub.

Amazingly after the spectacle of a few weeks ago, we have the back room all to ourselves. It’s us and the jukebox. She puts on Lou Reed’s ‘Walk on the Wild Side’. Complement it with his ‘Wild Child’. Very cozy behind our schooners by the window looking out over the colourful street.

One of the Mardi Grass grog hippies comes in. He had taken it all in from the prime spot on the roof of the psychedelic van parked in front of the saloon, another old friend of hers. Hug him easily:

“The man with the light in his eyes.”

On his sumptuously embroidered leather kaftan it says: ‘Tarot. Apply Within’.

He is the local Tarot reader. Is glad to see her and like everyone else, wants her dress sense. Is planning a Tarot show for the coming Solstice and wouldn’t mind her helping him out with the costumes. Tell him about my own Tarot affiliation, and:

“I’ll come up, even if she wont. Give a reading of my journey through the Trumps.”

Picking up on my Amsterdam heritage, he mentions the spiritual bridge between Amsterdam and Nimbin, with Woodstock – recently declared Nimbin’s twin town – in the triad:

“Amsterdammers passing through always say the same: It’s just like home only better.”

Which makes me grab him for another hug.

Right then Nimbin’s most loved poet and ambassador passes by, just returned from the ceremony in the U.S. to celebrate the Nimbin-Woodstock connection. It’s all happening. 

It doesn’t seem too farfetched to launch Moonchild from here where everyone is so open to magick, rooted in Aboriginal spirituality which is far better understood in this town of mystics than anywhere else. This place is awesomely for real. Like they say around here:

“In Byron Bay you can get away with bullshit but in Nimbin you’ve got to be real.”

When finally arriving at the party, it is slowing down but it soon jazzes up. Her motivating vitality is being missed:

“Some music for the birthday girl.”

Good to see that the sculptor on the Alan Ginsberg trip the other day is totally sane. He is looking after the music tonight and picks up the accordion again. There is dancing on the pavement in the middle of main street, making a racket, joints smoked openly. It feels very relaxed after the mayhem at Mardi Grass.

In our guest bed, trying to be quiet is very exhilarating. Tease her shy tongue again. It’s that meeting of tongues that stokes up the fire, the mingling of the bodily fluids setting off the primal passions. She is flowing abundantly from between her thighs and – both on our sides – she grabs my stem, dips it in, rocking it gently in the flow. Heaven.

*

Not a lot of sleep. The roosters, dawn. She drifts off for a while. After coffee with her friend we hit the street. Feel wonderful:

“High on pussy juice.”

“You didn’t.”

“Licked it off my fingers.”

“It was a wild night.”

Breakfast of egg sandwich and carrot juice. Another long linger in the museum. She has some work done on it when she was living here. Quite a place. We sit in the cave for a while, amidst the bones, paintings, rock art, symbols, a place for initiation.

“Nice place to get married.”

Jokingly of course, one doesn’t get married anymore but somehow this feels like our most sacred moment together, the limitations we are bound to run into a mere plausibility. Our feral union.

We take the quiet dirt road back along Tuntable and The Channon. Spectacular views but hardly competing with her magnificent profile, the scar on the nose, the curve of her lips, aware of my gaze, my desire.

Her son has gone out to pick flowers, there are flowers everywhere:

“Best mum in the world.”  And: ”You’re glowing.”

Nimbin’s finest arrive among whom is the rock singer and her erratic lover who turns out to be the one of the orgasmic greeting at Mardi Grass. Puts a bottle of vodka on the table:

“Half a cocktail we know you like. Your sonny boy got the other half.”

Time to dress up. Puts on one of her creations of the fieriest red, mightily impressing me:

“Scarlet, baby!”

Our banquet at the trendy cafe adjoining her shop is well set up. Tables are spread out into different corners for the divers assortment of her crowd. The Epicentre is well represented. There is at least one ex, male that is. There is her gay friend and her lover, plenty of ‘flairy bits’, her term for queer chic. A transvestite doing her number, always good for loosening the ‘girders of the soul’. A lovely gender bender bender altogether.

She looks stunning, fluttering around in her exquisite design, inspiring everyone. It takes a visit from the police to bring the party to an end.

Unwinding at her home, watching music videos with the mob that is staying over. Her son has arranged flowers all along the head of the bed.

Slow zonk out unto another plane. Sleep after forty four hours of bliss.

*

Wake to the morning sounds of the clatter and chatter of her extended family. The living room is one big bed of couches and mattresses. Her son has joined the rock singer and her beau in the double sofa bed. They are all close mates and the way they relate is boding well for humanity’s future. No gender problems, everyone happy with themselves. Extremely funny and creative with great depth and subtlety.

The beau is half Aboriginal, front teeth knocked out when at eighteen – having grown up in a white family – he put his name up on a pool board in some redneck pub, experiencing racism the hard way:

“Sick shit, man!”

Never made a dent in his self confidence though, is as fast and witty as. A bit restless but better restless than with the pin-points at Mardi Grass:

“What we need is a joint”.

When the joint going around the table is about to pass him by – sitting back in a comfy chair – he jumps up in mock indignity:

”Yes, please!” and snaps it up. “Thanks”.

His mate: “Good to see you’ve got your manners”.

One is admiring his own undies peeking out from his pants, the other pokes his finger through his own fly. They put juggling balls between each other’s bum cheeks, absence of power problems a tonic for the heart. The gay friend and her lover are delighted by this display of unencumbered maleness, unafraid of closeness.

The rain is picking up in a way that could flood me out of the valley. Preferring to be flooded in, make my way home. 

*

Her excellence slides out of her Kombi. Casual, boots, torn jeans. It being her own ass, she has mentioned that she reckons it is too big but it is just sublime. Arm in arm to the shed, tent pole in my trousers.

She seems somewhat reserved. Tells me she will have to go back at dusk. My Epicentre muse had been among the birthday guests, had in fact advised her to wear the scarlet dress. My writing has been discussed. She can see that it could be a bit of a worry:

“Never thought about it.”

“You may have to. It’s what I do.”

We talk away the day, digging into one another, sussing each other out, circling one another like animals claiming territory. When it’s time for her to go she assures me that she’d like to stay but has to go.

“That’s good to know.”

“See you in a few days.”

Warm goodbyes. It’s big time for her, in the thrall of signing a lease for that hot shop of hers.

*

Coming back with the shopping to entertain her at her impending return, find a distressed bird in the shed. When going into the forest for firewood, am startled by a fox, the first one ever around here. Who is the hunter, who is being caught?

At her arrival: “I’ve got a cold.” Meaning: “I can’t kiss.”

For my part, do get the fire started but can tell by the dampness that it wont really take off.

Chat and drink wine while cooking dinner. Has had a fervent few days. Gone out on the town with her girl friend from the cafe next door who was the instigator of course:

“We are going to find ourselves a man.”

They know that it won’t work like that, it’s just a way to have a good time together. To get rid of a couple of guys hassling them they’d gotten into a little red sports car as if it was their own. Pretending to look for the keys they had actually found them under the mat and had taken the car for a midnight spin around town, pissing themselves:

“Better than sex.”

They’d also gone to see a play in which a guy gets a bum fuck on stage and she got excited by the abundant display of pleasure caused by the act. Is bemused as to why the heterosexual male would want to be missing out on such pleasure.

Well, isn’t that opening things up. Then she really blows me out:

“I want to do a play, somewhere in Spring. Do you want to be in it?”

She has this vision of past life connections coming together in this region, her role being to ‘connect the eyes’:

“From the past, into this life, and into the future.”

However she fears that the black magicians who have been chasing her across lifetimes will not be far behind:

“If they can’t get me – superwoman – they drive my boyfriends to drink or my son to the skid.”

How about that! Can’t get closer to Moonchild’s ‘Black Brothers’ than that.

Though she knows that she’ll ultimately triumph:

“Can see the future but the past is murky.”

“Leave the past to me.”

She’s very confident:

“We’ll take it to the world stage.”

We go through two bottles of wine over dinner. Don’t get drunk, just cozy. We talk about relationships. After their mischief the other night she had chucked her girl friend in her son’s bed:

“He deserves it. They don’t sex though. Afraid to hurt each other in the future.”

“Is that maybe why we are so shy.”

In bed she holds me beautifully. Kiss her anyway. A little. She:

“You’re a teaser.”

“That makes two of us.”

Sits up, her laughing face looking into mine, so open, so happy. Could keep looking at that face for a long time. Fiddle with her gorgeous underwear that has crept up between her bum cheeks.

“What are you doing?”

“Fucking you up the ass.”

“All right, take that!”

Kiss and cuddle until sleep takes over. The beauty of us is that neither of us is forcing anything.

*

Oranges from the tree. Bring her the juice, a tea, her ciggies. Suggest a bubble bath.

Fill the tub, light some incense, while she graces my bush dunny.

Let her soak and relax for a while before sliding in with her. It’s a big tub. What a treat, the velvet foam over her silk softness, the heat of the water intensifying our own. Fumble between her cheeks again:

“Did you wash your bum hole yet?”

“Last night you wanted to give it to me down there.”

“That would be a bit suss, wouldn’t it? We haven’t even made love properly yet.”

Passion rises until we actually overheat and stumble out dizzy. We lay there for a while, zonked out. Cook us a hearty breakfast. She comes into the kitchen in her wild underwear, showing it off so naturally, her glowing forms in cheeky lace. How alluring to be with someone for who dressing is such an art form. 

Over breakfast she offers me her garage, a bush shack in the middle of Byron Bay:

“There is power and a bed. You wont be disturbed, just a little by me. We can work on the play together.”

Doesn’t take me long:

“Done.”

“wow!”

Wow indeed. After her leave, delve into Aleister’s Hagiography, refreshing my memory of Virakam. He never worried much about discarding his women but on Mary Desti he is uncharacteristically apologetic about dismissing her too easily. Will try and keep that in mind. Apart from having a good time together, he sees her as the quintessential public. She helps him to explain the knowledge he had gathered on his explorations around the world in a way that could be understood by the woman in the street and they started writing their ‘Book 4’, which would eventually be his classic ‘Magick in Theory and Practice’: Their Magickal Child, the gestation of which found its way in his hilarious novel Moonchild. 

This time around, by being illiterate but offering me the makings of a play, she forces me to perform. May just play Master Therion himself.

Gives me a call in the evening. Has listened to an old tape of a clairvoyant telling her about teaming up with past life characters and having stage craft and being involved in writing.

*

It is a jolly affair in front of her shop. Her table outside a natural extension to the glamorous cafe next door whose jingle of popular patronesses has made it a must for the in-crowd. She loves her girls:

“They all want to be in the play.”

Manage to pry ourselves loose. Stock up on a variety of Byron Bay’s gourmet take away, a couple of bottles of red and go to her place. Her Maori friend is there. Strong ties with her roots she’s a good audience for the occasion: A reading of the Nimbin episode in my ‘Moonchild’s Odyssey’ that has just come out in the latest Magick Magazine.

“We’ve been waiting for this.”

There is a soft rain during the reading but nothing to expect the sudden roll of thunder when going through the ‘cloud piercing’ bit. We’re all impressed with this uncanny coincidence.

Our relationship however is under pressure from her girls asking her whether we’ve done the wild thing yet. Not really being able to answer this in the affirmative, she is obviously not with the right bloke. Turns out she is more horny than she lets on.

In an attempt to defend my masculinity:

“Better no sex than bad sex. We’re working on it.”

Bring her to the shop before heading back. It is a sexy shop alright. A stream of funky women getting off on trying on her spunky goods. She points at a picture on the wall that she really likes: A man with his hand in his own crotch. A key to her buttons? 

“No wonder you get horny here. Just ring me when you feel like a bonk in the back of your shop.”

But it is said in a kind of jest, a bit of a delaying tactic. Intimidated by the abundance of opportunities, that familiar fear of both failure and success is playing up again.

*

When seeing her again she has taken on so much as to have drawn up a plan. Her mother has called from Melbourne and wants her there. One of her girls wants to come, so does her son. Put her at ease:

“You don’t have to exclude anything. We can have everything. Only want that bit of you that is for me. As long as I’m not in your way you will want to see me occasionally, am I wrong?”

Don’t wait for an answer. We do Byron’s three-pub-cicuit, ending at the Beach Hotel, at the outer bar in the nearness of the ocean, getting down to the nitty gritty over Black Russians.

Informs me of a dream she had in which she came up to visit me. Wasn’t home myself but a neighbour was, who had entertained her hugely. An indication of her disappointment with my lack of drive? Remind her of her first visit when she told me of her earlier abuse:

“Remember I took the pendant of the monkey cock off? Your stories slowed me down a lot especially where penetration is concerned.”

She is actually pleased:

“I wondered why I told you so much about myself then.”

Reckons our sexual development is jinxed for a reason:

“Might have spoilt what we have. Everything else is perfect. Still, we’re not as close as I often want to be.”

“As from today I will put on the monkey cock again.”

Home on a high but in a mood more comical than romantic. Makes a cup of coffee to sober up. Heaps of giggles, no sleep.

*

Back a few days later to take her out to dinner. By ourselves on the balcony of the Indian resto, nobody else daring the pregnant clouds to delay their deliverance for a while. Reassures me of her attraction to me:

“We have the same cheeky smile.”

Had wanted me badly the other night. When getting home there’s nobody there and we soon find ourselves between the sheets. She takes out the edible oil. Has hardly put it on both of us or sonny boy comes home:

“Hey mum, it’s only 9.30.”

“Put on some tra-la-la music.”

We’ve come too far to really care, no stopping our moaning and groaning. When she wildly fingers the buttons of my shirt, with my sexiest voice:

“Rip it open.”

Rips it open with gusto. Put my cock in as in ‘fuck’.

At that moment there is such a racket in the room we have to stop and look. The cat has caught a mouse and is having its playful way with it.

Am afraid it stopped us dead in our tracks.

*

In the morning, everyone gone from the house, the mouse disposed off, she wraps her gorgeous body around me, oiled up and juicy. Can only stay inside her for little bits at the time. Haven’t had a fuck for ages, no endurance at all. Work hard on not coming before my time until:

“Oh, no.”

Lay there, hands in the spunk on my belly, her gaze on me, benevolently:

“Shower and a cuppa?”

In the steam together, soap and spunk and smooth skin. Fingers the monkey cock:

“Glad to be wearing it again?”

“Sorry it hasn’t got much muscle. Wasn’t teasing you, just didn’t want to come before you.”

“Did I come?”

“Wouldn’t know for sure, would I?”

“You were on the brink for ages. I wasn’t going to miss out.”

How about that? Orgasm at will! Worry about her in that department has obviously been unfounded.

Before deciding whether to go to Melbourne she wants to know about my ideas for the play. Can only tell her what is foremost on my mind. How in her ‘connecting the eyes’ she has run into the reborn Aleister Crowley as the reincarnation of one of his mistresses.

Doesn’t seem to be too surprised:

“Did we have sex?”

“As slowly evolving as this time around.”

Give her an outline of the plot of Aleister’s ‘Moonchild’, the adventure of his and Virakam’s love affair. The strict regimen within their relationship, their fastings, meditations, little but highly charged sex, the use of sexual tension for creativity itself, breeding their Magickal Child by the means of Sex Magick while warding off the pursuit by the Black Lodge – her black magicians.

“What exactly is Sex Magick?”

Blow my cover altogether: The alchemy of mixing the bodily fluids, the application of the elixir, auto-eroticism. Keep it light, appealing to her affinity with the wanker in her shop:

“Best sex I had was with myself.”

It gets her all warmed up but on me it has the opposite effect. It makes me feel terribly vulnerable and just need to get out of there, create some distance. The wheels of karma grinding on irrevocably, playing out the Virakam groove again, unable to put anything into securing her love for me. To leave her to her own devices will no doubt have her taken in, if not by Virakam’s dashing Turk then by someone like it. Then there is the mother. She will be going to Melbourne anyway. Can’t but do the bolt. 

Let it sit for a few days until the phone rings:

“You wouldn’t ring, would you?”

She’ll be leaving tomorrow. We have one more day.

There are bits of rainbow over Byron Bay and at my arrival at the house, there is a full double one right over the garage, as if rubbing it in: That’s what you’re throwing away, mate!

She has been out on the town again, with a bunch of her girls to ‘Cocomangas’. Had refrained from taking an Ekkie with:

“We may end up bonking one another.”

On another night at the Beach Hotel with her big bad Maori friend they had been singled out by a contingent of Nomad bikies. With unconvincing indignity:

“They tried to touch me wherever they could!”

Had whacked one over the head, hugely appreciated of course. Had been invited to one of their parties. Have the feeling she declined out of common sense rather than from lack of desire.

However she obviously has still got a place for me. But now that the cat is out of the bag the idea is kind of overwhelming me. To impersonate Crowley’s reincarnation is just too much of an impossible job. How to ever pull that off. It is bound to widely be seen as madness and even to me it is not so sure that it isn’t. Except that this most magnificent woman is willing to believe in me. It fits right in with her own aspirations and she is able to propagate the props for putting a formidable show on the road. Something like a sequel to Snoo Wilson’s ‘The Beast’, back in Amsterdam 1979, or the Rites of Eleusis, giving me a most spectacular way to come out and fulfill my mission.

But as so often when things are lined up for me in such a staggering way, flight is the inescapable option.

*

Spend some hectic days getting Moonchild’s Odyssey from its Apple II GS condition on to something more compatible and into a new print to take to Nimbin at the Solstice.

When the day arrives, it is grey and raining, almost don’t feel like going. Then it dawns on me that it’s also up to me how the weather will develop on this ‘Nimbin Reconciliation Day’. The invitation from the Indigenous people to come and ‘Rock around the Rocks’ is advertised with the addition ‘weather permitting’, in this case meaning: ‘It’s up to Spirit’.  Am part of that spirit with my ‘literary bridge’ between Amsterdam and Nimbin, so there is no way out of this one. Always a thrill to approach this wildest of little towns.

Put my manuscript in front of ‘Mr. Tarot’ who is just doing a reading:

“I’ll quit at 1 o’clock. See you in the pub.”

Is already well juiced up when he arrives:

“Have no plans for the Solstice. Can’t read your story either. Gone through a six-pack already.”

Such droogs around here!

But such characters. Sets off on a rave that lasts the rest of the afternoon. Likens Nimbin to Herman Hesse’s ‘Magic Theatre’ in Steppenwolf:

“Admittance your mind. This place is only for maddies. Anyone detracting us from our mad realities is vibed out of town.”

He himself has a beautifully lateral thinker in his brain box, weaving a tapestry of every religious thought ever thought on the face of the earth, his concoction of Dervish, Krishna, Christ, Buddha and Baghwan a delight to the spiritual palate. And about Crowley:

“Holy man, hiding behind The Beast. He was the ‘Eye in the Triangle’ for a while and let it run wild. Look where it got him. No country in Europe would let him in anymore.”

His respect for the Old Crow is obvious: “Magick is when all the kids go: “Yeah!”

Towards dusk, wander off to the museum by myself. A quiet smoke, enjoying the treasure trove of information about the muffled history of ganja smoking and everything else having to do with Nimbin culture plastered on the walls and hanging from the ceilings of its few little rooms and hallways. Labyrinth for psycho-tropic initiation. One can get lost in here.

In the little hallway near the ‘cave’, focussing on Indigenous issues, getting near the end of the joint, my full and energised attention on an old newspaper clipping on the meaning of the word Nimbin, an Aboriginal man appears, puts his bag and didgeridoo in the cave:

“Alright, who is smoking the joint?”

Show him the end bit of it:

“Just about finished.”

He sits down and takes out the gear to roll another one. The message on the wall has got me all excited. Apart from meaning ‘Place of Rocks’ there is the meaning of ‘Clever Man’ or ‘Mystical Man’ and ‘Man in Mountain’: 

“Look at this.”

Read some out to him, wondering what he’d think of the role of the Clever Man within a tribal community. Looks me squarely in the eyes for a while sussing out the source of my excitement. Tattoos on his hands, his feet, his neck, a serious warrior. Reads a bit himself and explains how in tribal life it was clear who the ‘Clever Man’ was, each in their own field of expertise. Often these ‘clever’ people – men and women – went and lived by themselves and were arbiters in cases of dispute.

An enlightening moment! Good to understand from this tribal warrior that individuality is actually more appreciated in tribal communion than in a so-called democracy.

He lights up the joint. Bob Marley is on the sound system, ‘Jammin’. We groove to the music, toking on. He points to his trousers which have a Marley print. When finding out that my place of birth is Amsterdam he gives me a great big smile. The bridge between Amsterdam and Nimbin is really there now and being blessed by an original Australian.

He turns out to be Bundjalung. Always having wanted to relate my most mind boggling experience with aunt Millie at the Nimbin Festival 1983 to one of his people, this is the moment. Our conversation is interspersed with interruptions from a sudden invasion of tourists, for each of whom he has a little of his attention: “How ‘re ye going, sis?”

And holding up the joint to a young man, long blond hair: “Excuse me brother.”

Have you ever heard anyone offering someone a joint with: ‘Excuse me’? 

Indigenous sensitivities are just about out of reach for the off-spring of Western civilisation, although when the young man points at the didge:

“Do you play? Would you give us a whirl?”

“Do you play?”

“A little.”

“After you.”

The young guy takes up the didge and makes it sing so beautifully, it takes my breath away: “Wow.”

And our Aboriginal brother, before giving his own whirl: 

“You beat me brother, blew my mind.”

The answer to my deliberations about spinning Aboriginal spirituality into my tale is loud and clear: Duty is to beauty, the way this white boy plays the didge.

*

Our liaison ends quite gracefully. We go to Brisbane on one of her business trips and stay over at her gay girlfriend’s house. It is not that they have an affair but when it’s time to hit the sack, it is far more natural for them – being the close friends that they are – to share the bedroom with one another and leave the couch to me, than to arrange things around a mere boyfriend. Sleep doesn’t come easily. After about an hour the sounds of ecstatic women in love drifts through the wall. Interestingly it brings me peace of mind and sleep takes over. 

Wake up in the early morning by the approach of orgasm: Am in a lucid dream, laying on this very couch. The bedroom door opens and my adulterous lover comes out and joins me, putting her sweaty body still moist from her girlfriend’s embrace all over me. The dampness of her skin is fatally exhilarating. Awake just in time to avoid impregnating the couch.

We are a little giddy and giggly driving back to Byron Bay. It is sort of obvious that it is going to be our last ride together for a while, but it is also clear that the way we have handled our affair has empowered both of us.

She does end up doing her play which turns out more fantastic than just a fabulous fashion show of her hemp designs. However, my show needs a wider audience.

***