Guardians of a Gaian Dream

Part 1; emergency dispatch calling for Groove and Reconciliation Sub-committee meeting.

Hello 

Your reception of this transmission is highly unlikely, let it be a Notification from the Underground. It has been dispatched to your device from a swamp-hole tucked away in one of the Valleys of the Over-berg, Western Cape, South Africa.

We are requesting an emergency Groove and Reconciliation Sub-Committee meeting.

I don't have much time… I must be brief… 

The meeting is being requested in the endeavor to identify would be Guardians of the Gaian Dream…

I do not know the eyes or ears that this trance-mission will reach. I must be both brief and illusive.

If it is meant for you, you will know by a web of uncanny and irreducibly-idiosyncratic reference. By impossible personal relevance, by loose intimations of a uniquely tailored web of causal-coincidence. It will of necessity provoke you into a mode of meaning-making, of participation, it will use your inevitable filling of spaces left implicit, spaces you will fill with your own meaning. This is good, that is where we will meet.

Let me not reach too far here in terms of possible relevance and get to saying what needs to be said.

This weekend there will be a gathering, a calling together of would be Guardians of a Gaian Dream. I am behooved to put something to word in order to prepare the would be initiate for what has been prepared.

An Evil Oil Man, will be delivering the key-note to the sub-committee. The meeting is being called in the wake of the recent violent-desecration of the Tribe of Nova’s dancefloor, in what one would hope was a parallel universe but is not. 

News of this reached us in our swamp-hole only two weeks ago… this news as well as the most dramatic floods this valley has seen in the last decade, have compounded the strangeness and felt-significance of the lead up to the Event. We are to convene the Groove and Reconciliations over-mountain sub-committee… the quest is for Guardians of the Gaian Dream.

I have received important information regarding the Gaian Dreamscape and the call being transmitted to its would-be-dancing-guardians. Convicted, I am tasked with conveying this call. Specifically, conveying subtle and workable psychic coordinates for the development of a meta-stable-orientation… a prerequisite for those who would transverse the dream-scapes of increasing complexity and mind-inverting strangeness… those, who in the Long Dance to Freedom, will not be undone by confused-aggression-hijacked-shut-down or become parasite-possessed, those who will not succumb to the siren call of degenerate-pleasures, committing themselves to the fate of being ‘dragged behind a farting camel’..

I have little time, I must be brief, the trance-mission will of necessity be coded, it will sometimes be painfully poetic. I must be brief, we do not have much time… i pray you follow way-farer, bounty awaits.

In the unlikely and uncanny event that you have received this transmission on time, that this arrow dispatched from the abyss of an Over-mountain valley swamp-hole has pinged your own device, I encourage you to let it play.. seriously.. resist…  immediate closures of meaning are .. anyway, may this trance-mission may find a clear meandering path to you.

Abyssal Arrows of reference will abound, hyper-linking-cultural-artifacts-compounded and compiled into multi-applicable cluster-bombed projectiles of meaning… many seed-tipped arrows will fall on dry lifeless ground… many will fall confused in arid dying soil.

But a few will hit their mark! X marks the spot… and the cluster fuck of consequence and misconstrued meaning will be justified by their having done. 

Follow me friend as I attempt to relay a subterranean trance-mission, that since my stumbling upon it underfoot, and the recent raising of the stakes, i am compelled to dispatch.

These valley-swamp-abysses admit only of High Play… this little enclave of the divinely depraved are anticipating key-note transmissions from a rhythm-pirate, a covert Guardian of the Gaian Dream… the Evil Oil Man.  Seriousness in Play… it is important that you follow… dreams need dreaming in the light of day.

You might be the exact right person for the Job… you technomadic hunter gatherer pirate celestial juke-box sampling remixer of culture, you aspirant sonic scientist of joy. 

I write, speak and think as a writer-DJ… a compiler… initiated into decentralized-subterranean-mycelial-like-networks of distributed cognition and liminal pop-up cultural cathedrals of remixticism…  

This is a dispatch! Flung to you amidst warring states, depraved government goons, corrupt navel gazing zombified buffoons..  I must be brief and sneaky, we cannot say who might this transmission intercept….

Let the cacophony of reference… the poetic appropriation of artifact titles… dissuade and delude unprepared hungry ghosts, let the mors-code of ‘skin-in-the-game’ evade the capture of the mors-dood.

A writer compiler of what is already in Play… a distributed cognition synthesizer…  compiler of hyper-saturated-hyper-textual-hyper-linking-network-culture…

In this trance-mission I speak of the galloping groove of the psytrance-cultures-pirate-mothership-dance floors and the many valleys, garden groves and deserts that host these stomping feet… 

Sub - committees of Groove and Reconciliation they are, spread sporadically around the globe…  globular rhythms induct a handful among them into the reclamation of their inheritance… those who arrive with dancing feet, the existence of which proclaims back to the earth its very meaning…  

In fidelity to the Earth, guardians have been tracing the groove-lines of state-evading and traversing nomads in order to meet on the battle-field known as the Dance-Floor… established and just as quickly struck down by pirate-like bands weathering circumstance into party, and party into celebration.

Where PUlse pulverizes pretense, galloping-dancefloor ordeals transport way-farers into proximity with such Otherness that they are propelled into the jaw dropping audacity of the all too human.

Pulsing PEACE, LOVE, UNITY and RESPECT give a good media face to a binding ethos and are tagged by faces of the scene in times of turmoil and confusion… but the task is war and dancing is freedom fighting.

All aboard the mothership… captain black… an evil oil man will set the course, the Groove and Reconciliation sub-committee convenes in the swamp-hole valley of the over mountains.

Our task… the endless inverting of pretense in the name of planetary defense

Bushmen that used to hunt and gather in these valleys would say ‘ if you don’t dance you die’…

Might we add, if you don’t die… you’ll never actually dance.. Dance through death, bruh... death-dance your scooty batooty through the front lines and into the fractal grooves of diasporic organick beet-cultivators. 

This is a calling card… minutes of the meeting are measured in BPM’s … averaging velocities and frequencies that push beyond twice the speed of a minute… traveling at something like two minutes per minute, moving in place, all by the Grace and Gravy of a Gaian Dream

… Yasis… you are called to get a bit naughty in the trenches. Such is the work of reconciliation,  reconciling children of the earth with one another, wenches and mensches as they may be.

Class is in, professor MCFUNKNUTS is about to drag his over the decks... Get all ya booty’s in check..

Hips don’t lie! 

I can hear that ecstatic-mystical-nomad Hafiz telling the tax evading Shakti-Shakira prior to her delivery of those prophetic words…

‘Sweet one, be wise …

CAST ALL YOUR VOTES FOR DANCING…’

And so we cast our votes with every beat under which we gather and stomp.

Sample those organick beets brah…

St Nietzsche once said, “one needs chaos within them if one is to give birth to a dancing star—”

The kind of Chaos that is DOstoevsky's refrain, ‘For indeed it is so my friend, the moment that you make yourself sincerely responsible for everything and everyone, you will see at once that it is really so, that it is you who are guilty for all and on behalf of all…”

And if you feel averse to the SLIME & PUNISHMENT of that idea, if you have been snared in a  cosmic level guilt trip… then let it simply be this…

With every gesture, with every insignificant movement of your whole holey body, you cast your vote… 

Now, sweet one, be wise

And cast all your votes for dancing..

…. 

The EMERGENCY Groove and Reconciliation Sub-woofa-committee MEETING  has been CALLED! 

Will you report for service? It is asking, will you be a dancing guardian of a Gaian Dream?

Chickpeas and HAMAS have installed the latest edition of a long story of violence and propounding grief.

Get your ass to a dance floor near you… convene with the mycelial network of sub-committees… Groove and Reconcile .. it may seem easier to hate than to grieve… if that is so, take your pain to the floor and let it be massaged by rhythm and then deliver to us the meaning, as it has passed under your foot. 

Grieve, groove and reconcile… soothe a blood spilt earth with the cathartic massage of dancing feet.

FREEDOM FIGHTERS, Gaian dream guardians, with humbled audacity, let me just take one moment to sing sincerely and clearly… of the significance of your dancing feet… 

Alright, destination fucked, mothership-vibe-transmitters… the task ahead has a potentially cosmic proportion, our task is imaginative… if we succeed we land laughing as the butt of our own Joke.. if we fail we will continue to periodically stand aghast at the consequence of our terrible and age old love of war 

… The perpetuation of war is owed to a failure of imagination…

A book is written on that, our Terrible Love of War… I do not have the time to unpack what I hope smacks you in the face as an idea… i do not have the time either to draw out why the psy-culture, if we can speak of this egregore as a culture, is a metamorphosed-war-machine in the nomadological sense of Deleuze and Gittari… why this ongoing experiment in becoming indigenous to the cosmically-liminal finds precedent in the war-machine-usurping monk-order generating aspirations of Siddhartha the Buddha…or the nature-regulated and culture-regulating trance dances of our hunter-gatherer-banded ancestors.

If but one seed-tipped arrow of the above might fall on fertile soil, the trance mission has been a success… all the more if it finds your hips spitting truth on the dance-floor

Alright, SPACE ghetto FUNK blaster… lets bottom out with the intelligible, cruise along the left of the monstrous mystique and howl our testament to the birth of dancing stars with the warp and woof of the scoodle badoodle poodliing noob noodle tonky tonk.

Sense will be made after the storm, and budding sprouts of meaning nurtured… for now,

Will you self-conscript?

May you be confounded… 

May you realize you have a vote to cast and

Might you cast that vote for dancing… 

You cosmo-erotic-human-clitoris!

Joy is the substance of the real

Chill-aggressively

You inhabitant of the liminal deep, terrorist freedom-fighter, bed fellow of a monstrous mystique. 

It’s a long dance to freedom

But do not worry, the beets are organick.

Dancefloor Guardians of a Gaian-Dream… 

Groove and Reconciliation sub-committee meetings abound, get to your nearest 

We gather in the valley of the over-mountains.

We are a Gaian Dream, dreaming itself into ever-complexified depths 

Our task is grand and immediate, your conscription is total repossession

Giving as we have been given 

Living testament of dancing feet…

(… foreshadowing part 2… if we weather the storm…

The task of “Facing Gaia” might be something like a masqued-ball.)