Tag Archive: rivers

Are You Destroying Creation?

Are You Destroying Creation?

Are you or your family trashing the waters of life?


Most people living in rural areas seem to have no idea they’re stealing their children’s future (and breaking laws) every day, and many just don’t care. People in cities and towns have little idea how badly the people entrusted with caring for everyone’s land and water are managing the planet’s resources. Most people are fairly ignorant about very basic matters and some just don’t give a damn about anything but money.

Landholders are custodians of the land; most aren’t aware that their property deeds give them the legal right to occupy the land, not to ‘own’ it. Individuals can never truly own something that will forever outlast them. Yet thoughtless acts by today’s temporary stewards destroy more of the common wealth – and everyone’s future– every livelong day.

It takes a few minutes to cut down a thousand year old tree with a modern chainsaw. The tree cutter’s great-great-great grandchildren can never know what their ancestor destroyed, or even know what they’ve missed out on. When an ancient tree or forest is gone it won’t grow back for millennia, if ever.

It’s amazingly easy to turn forests full of thousand year old trees into rocky moonscapes without enough soil to grow anything but noxious weeds, and it takes no talent at all to turn rivers teeming with fish and wildlife into dead, toxic drains. All it takes is heartless stupidity, and it’s plainly evident to anyone with eyes in their heads that plenty of people still suffer from that particular disease.

Most people seem unaware of the fact that there’s hardly a river left in the Land of Oz that’s safe to drink – or in the world, for that matter. This isn’t due to global warming. It’s literally sickening to dip your skin or expose your eyes to many streams, and this isn’t because of natural climate fluctuations. It’s because humans have used the rivers as sewers and chemical dumps and destroyed the banks that kept streams healthy and flowing in the places where they belong. And every day, people continue to trash dwindling fresh waterways even now that the damage – and its cause – is bleeding obvious.

Old time pioneers had excuses for their destructive behaviour; they didn’t know any better, and the world seemed all but limitless to the first farmers and tree cutters who built homes for their children in primeval places. We no longer have those excuses. Yet the destruction continues to accelerate every day even though we certainly know better than our forebears.

Humans have trashed almost everything they’ve touched, and the main reason anything is left is that some areas have been too uneconomical to exploit to death (yet), while some soils are deeper than others and will last a few years longer before they end up being washed out to sea, leaving rocks, sand or clay pans where life once flourished.

One short word explains all this destruction, and it isn’t ‘money’ – a destructive idea in itself. It’s simple GREED.

Now that the last vestiges of remote old forests are finally on track for preservation it’s time to tackle the problem of the hippopotamus in everyone’s lounge room; the river’s and streams we can no longer drink or even safely swim in.


Let’s keep it simple. If you cut any vegetation on creeks or riverbanks – by brush-cutting, slashing, mowing, digging, bulldozing or grazing animals there – you’re committing a crime against nature and humanity. You’re also breaking laws which were put in place throughout Australia (for instance) way back in the 1840s, before the country was even an independent nation.

The knowledge that destroying trees and other plants on the banks of rivers is a stupid idea has been with us for a long time. It isn’t some novel invention of radical greenies. Socrates complained about it in ancient Attica.

In bygone times our ancestors knew that all they had to do to keep life sustainable was to preserve the water and soil for their children’s children. Yet greed overcame those selfsame grandchildren, who ignored the wisdom of their elders in pursuit of a little more cash in hand. Today many landholders believe the lie that the land is theirs to do what they will with, and the slack beurocrats who supposedly oversee the soil, forests, wildlife and waters from distant air conditioned offices have let greedy scum get away with murdering the landscape.

Trees and vegetation keep rivers in place. They stop so much evaporation from Sun and wind that streams with treed banks have almost twice as much water as those without. It’s been illegal, immoral and gluttonous to clear any vegetation within a ‘chain width’ (22 yards) of the upper banks of any river or stream, permanent or temporary, in the Great Southern Land – the driest continent on Earth – for the better part of the last two centuries. These days these ‘filter strips’ have been upgraded to a minimum of twenty metres in width. These strips need to be at least as wide as the height of the trees which grow there to do their job effectively – and to survive any trees that fall there.

It’s been illegal to graze animals in these riparian zones all this time, and it’s been illegal to place cattle fences – or allow any grazing animals – closer to the upper bank of any river or stream than this small distance for many generations. Cows, sheep, goats and other livestock all trample and eat everything that grows there – and they piss and shit in the flood zones and directly into the water used by people downstream. The riverbanks and rivers have been illegally trashed for a few measly extra quids or bucks – a good example of the old adage ‘penny wise and pound foolish’.

All it takes to preserve water depth, volume and quality – and fish, tortoises, platypuses, frogs and all other life that flourishes in fresh water – is to maintain this tiny strip of plant life. Yet a single glance at virtually every landholding in the country will show you that this simple law has been ignored and broken almost everywhere, creating a disaster that was far easier to avoid than it is to repair. Don’t take my word for it; take a look at the world beyond the screen, or just zoom in on Google Earth.

For the times they are a’changing.


Cutting Off Your Nose to Spite Your Face

The rivers and banks are not private land, regardless of apparent property lines printed on survey maps. They belong to everyone. Convention and law dictate that when a fence is erected between neighbours each pays half the cost and effort to erect and maintain it.

As the public ‘owns’ (is responsible for) all the rivers, governments have allocated funds to pay half the costs for farmers to fence off their banks. Government usually provides the materials and the landholder provides the labour – an arrangement most people see as very equitable. Grants are available for landholders to repair and revegetate their banks. Yet even when the rivers are fenced off many graziers simply use them as an extra paddock in lean times and their hard-hoofed cattle and sheep destroy everything that attempts to grow there.

Many farmers even hack down any sapling that grows on the banks in the alarmingly false belief that ‘trees cause erosion’. Many have so few trees left beside ‘their’ rivers they’ve never seen how even small stands of forests maintain the banks. Whereas water can swirl around a single tree and tear away soil, a stand of trees, shrubs and wild clumping grasses – a diverse natural system – holds everything together. Filter strips even build up the banks, clean the water and protect land holdings downstream by catching soil and debris during floods.

Without these ‘filter strips’ untold millions of tons of topsoil are washed out to sea with every flood and rivers change course, destroying the most fertile croplands, meadows and paddocks farmers need to survive. These narrow strips also provide excellent (and necessary) wildlife corridors and seed banks that can relink most fragmented ecosystems and reknit the sundered and plundered web of life back together again.

They also rebuild swimming holes, fish breeding habitat and recreate untold amounts of the best naturally mineralised drinking water money can’t buy.


What Can One Person Do?

In the new era of global water scarcity big fines now await those who destroy riverbanks. All it takes to bring expensive legal action against destructive landholders is a complaint to a government department – and governments no longer need to inspect on the ground or await a complaint. They have satellites that peek into all the nooks and crannies out of sight of roads or houses – yet they still won’t act until a member of the public makes a complaint, or unless directed to by their department heads or ministers.

Land rapists can no longer hide their crimes, but it still all comes down to you. Why not report a malefactor to your state environment or water management department today? That’s what they’re there for. Make those cozened public servants earn the money we’re all paying them. Make them enforce the laws that protect our lands and waters, by letting them know that a crime’s been committed by a crooked landholder – and insist that they take a look for themselves and act on any infringements.

Levying fines against poor landholders is a last resort, except in the most dire cases of obvious and major wilful destruction. The first step environment and water departments usually take is to simply hand ‘stop work’ or ‘remediation’ orders – demands to stop destroying the rivers or to repair the damage – to the landholder, along with economic assistance for dams, water troughs, pumps and fencing materials where necessary. It’s actually a very generous arrangement.

But in most places the beurocrats won’t act at all unless YOU pick up the phone or write a letter or email – and demand a reply. It isn’t a matter of dobbing in your neighbours to heartless cops. It’s about saving the future for your children’s children.

The Age of Aquarius is the age of the water bearer. If we act now our descendants may not have to carry heavy buckets of clean water around for the next two millennia. If we don’t act now we’ll learn how hard it is to replant life in a desert.

It’s actually up to you – the sovereign of the world – to bring back the balance between humans and nature.

Let’s keep it simple. If you cut any vegetation on creeks or riverbanks – by brush-cutting, slashing, mowing, digging, bulldozing or grazing animals there – you’re committing a crime against nature and humanity.

If you can see a river or stream from a distance it’s being desiccated by Sun and wind – and the law and lore of the land are being broken.

You’d have to be blind or ignorant not to see what’s happening – and now you can’t lay claim to the defence of ignorance. The future is in your hands. Do you have a phone? A computer? A pen? Help flood government departments with your complaint today – NOW.

And have a long drink of clean, pure, nourishing fresh water – if you can find any.

Time appears to flow onward…

- R. Ayana


Images – author’s

For further enlightenment see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com


New Illuminati on Facebook – http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Illuminati/320674219559

The Prince of Centraxishttp://centraxis.blogspot.com

This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author – and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites – you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…

From The Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

Waters of Life and Death

Where will you run to be reborn when the time comes, and why?


After decades of relentless partying and various ongoing relationships of all kinds with thousands of human beings, this heretic hermetic hermit finally managed to trick himself into entering a life of almost complete isolation.
I convinced myself that I wasn’t the only one who wanted to leave the city and move onto the land, even when the tide of new settlers was retreating back in the opposite direction at the end of the old Cold War – when greed became good and everyone was invited to sell out their dreams for a devaluing bankroll of inedible potage.
Many people had gone bush after becoming convinced the world was about to be torn apart in nuclear confrontation in the hideous times that elected the likes of Ronnie Raygun and Maggot Hatcher, when hundreds of thousands of urban dwellers took to the streets in the last great gasp of the Twentieth Century’s public protests. The first big wave of back to the land, down to Earth ‘tree changers’ happened earlier, back in the ‘60s and ’70s, when there were suddenly far more baby booming young people than old codgers in the Western world. Escape into paradise was much cheaper, more widespread and seemingly easier than it is today.
Now the demographic pendulum has swung back the other way and an inverted pyramid of oldsters balances on a fine point of put-upon youngsters.
Young people no longer have the freedom provided by safety in numbers and are expected to knuckle down and conform to the humdrum treadmill that masquerades as ‘daily life’ for their purblind, surveillance minded, paranoid rat-racing elders. It was a fate far more easily escaped by adventurous youngsters of the preceding generation, when today’s ossified straight old timers were hunkering down into lifelong toil while sneering at the small minority of freedom loving young hippies – laughing at all their talk of environme

ntal destruction, alternative energy, the creation of healthy, child-oriented societies and how we could all be making love instead of war.
When I moved to this semi remote forest there were more than forty kids on the school bus that winds through this little valley from the nearest hick village. Now there’s one teenage kid left, and as he takes Wednesdays off there’s no public transport at all on Wednesdays. Or on weekends. Or school holidays.  When the phoney Cold War ended and the kids of the hippies began to grow up and leave (and helicopters began to make it difficult to grow mull) most couples followed their kids downstream to the beach, or back to the entertaining cities of their youthful memories.
The local hick town lost its only real industry when the loggers ran out of trees (they were too greedy, short-sighted and stupid to save any nearby forests for later) and has been repopulated by greying Tree Changer oldsters – retirees with no children to brighten up the town. Nonetheless, they’re a great improvement on the previous tenants.
The villages hereabouts are microcosms of Western society. Oldsters don’t usually move to the actual bush, or anywhere more than a few minutes from a nearby hospital. They never really have, unless, like me, they call widely respected doctors ‘dog turds’ and, like good old Baron Munchausen, avoid the inept Hospitalier’s gloomy, bloody temples of half-arsed death worship at all costs.
Despite various impediments including multiple snake bites, dingo attacks, tetanus, golden staph, internal bleeding, broken bones, smashed teeth, dislocated joints, infected abscesses, hernias and many more difficult personal experiences over the past decades, I’ve always avoided the dog turds and dealt with such difficulties myself – and healed all damage without resorting to modern pills or nostrums, while many others I know have been killed or maimed by ‘medical errors’.
Metaphysician, heal thyself.


Now many of the lands that were liberated from loggers and ranchers and replanted with fruit and nut trees have reverted back into the hands of those dumb redneck destroyers once again. I regularly watch new idiots appear, illegally bulldoze swathes of forest and riverbanks and tie down the Earth Mother with bloodstained barbed wire fences only to give up within a year or two, running back to town and leaving their horrendous messes for some poor hippy or permaculturist to clean up.
Fat chance. The land has become ludicrously expensive and (or course) most of it is really owned by banks and other financial institutions. Only those with access to large amounts of money feel enabled to go bush these days, unless they’re a freedom-loving person with uncommon sense. A single house in the Emerald City could have been exchanged for a thousand acres or more and multiple dwellings on paradisiacal, well watered fertile land twenty years ago; now one urban building can only be exchanged for a single house on a much smaller acreage.
Laws controlling rural communities and communes have multiplied, and even though they’re never enforced in practice they’ve served to keep timid town dwellers from entering lives of bold experimentation. The worst aspects of the nanny surveillance state are still easily avoided out of the prying sight of the townies but hardly anyone realises how simple it is to live in real freedom any more. Hardly anyone knows that there are still many populous alternative communities tucked away on the land, or that many have become viable, successful places that still accept newcomers with open hearts and arms. Hardly anyone knows how easy it is to live breathing clean air and drinking clean water, or how little you need to be happy in a clement climate. Humans have become so cocooned and insulated and screened that hardly anyone knows what good land in a good climate is any more.
Understandably, most such places that have survived the backlash years of Greed Is Good straightness don’t advertise their existence too widely. If you’re a straight person who doesn’t want to change their ways please stop reading now, and forget I ever mentioned the fact that an alternative society actually still exists. You’ll only wreck it if you want to join without transforming yourself and leaving your horrendous baggage behind where it belongs, in the shitty.


A few weeks ago this bearded, long haired, wild and woolly her(m)etic hermit (someone you might well eye with suspicion and cross the road to avoid on an urban street) was camped out on a paddock in the valley Bello, in a landscape originally liberated from the hobnailed hands of meatheads by the fabled Findhorn Community back in the 1970s.
Homeland is one of the communities that still thrives in paradise, having survived the ravages of the straightie eighties, whiney nineties and Nazi noughties to emerge largely unscathed into these brand new days of the post-dawn Aquarian Age.
Unlike aging rural towns filled with retirees in search of life at last in the last days of their lives, some alternative communities still attract and produce a younger, freer, wiser breed. During the Thora Bora celebration at the start of this southern spring, young people easily outnumbered the older, tireder  forerunners – who’ve made a large slab of land available for festivals, parties and even (pause to spit) doofs, to keep the alternative lifestyle and spiritual seeker ball rolling along.
Graced by a local Aboriginal elder (also a rainbow-clad ‘green’ councilman) who opened the gig with an old, old song accompanied by clapsticks, the celebration was warmed, nay heated, by huge bamboo bonfires that echoed the Burning Spark – a local version of Burning Man that burst onto the site a few weeks earlier.
By two in the morning, as the moon was rising beyond the mist of the river and shining through clouds of billowing smoke, a group of celebrants was sitting around a handful of hundred year old blazing hardwood stumps. A still dreadlocked ex-feral asked me where I was from (like native people, few in the alternative movement open conversations with ‘what do you do?’) and when I told him, pointing south through dark forested ranges, he said, “Oh, I was just there yesterday. I was looking at some land.”
“What a coincidence! Hardly anyone makes it out that way any more. Which block?” Most of the valley is currently for sale. It transpired he’d been inspecting some land right beside my home, where the next door neighbour is selling the title to two comfortable houses and an easily manageable forty acres for a third of a million Aussie dollars.
“I don’t know about the river,” he said.
“It’s the dry season,” I reminded him. “Everything’s just about as dry as it gets right now. I’ve been drinking the river for twenty years, and so have the kids; it’s perfect. The water’s been tested quite a few times by government departments, and it’s amazingly clean – right up until it gets to that cow farm downstream from the block you were looking at. It’s totally toxic by the time it leaves his place.”
“I saw some cowshit on the banks.”
“That’s because no-one’s been living there and chasing the cows back to the meathead’s place. The fences were damaged in the last big floods and the cattle farmers take their time repairing them if they think they can get free feed from their neighbour’s land. Stealing other people’s soil makes lots of filthy lucre for them.
“I don’t have any neighbours with cattle, but they used to chase their horned beasts kilometres upstream onto my place for a free feed. I still have to chase a handful of genuinely wild ones away from the fruit trees and veges every dry season. The graziers all illegally overgraze the land, and the soil on their paddocks is all compacted and washing away…”
“Can’t you call the cops or something?” a teenage hip hop artist asked.
“The impounding officer,” I replied while watching people take turns at the eyepiece of Tim’s impressively large reflector telescope on the greensward nearby, surveying the moon and the moons of Jupiter. “According to the law the owners owe agistment money for all those wayward cattle – they ought to be paying a hundred bucks a week ‘or part thereof’ if a dozen cows eats the grass on your land – but of course they don’t unless you take them to court.
“The easiest way to deter them is to shoot a couple of their cattle. They only pay attention when it costs them.”
“Have you ever done that?” the rapper asked with eyes gleaming.
“When I first moved to the bush the cows were everywhere. The ranchers – none of them are ‘farmers’, they don’t actually grow anything, just fatten meat for slaughter – told all the hippies that if they made trouble for them or their cows they’d make sure their mull plants were busted. They chase their cows onto everyone else’s land and wander all over it, so they often know where the secret trees have been planted – and most have a brother or cousin with the local cops.
“When I complained that the meathead’s cows were destroying my fruit trees the inbred bumpkins tried that tactic on me, but I told them to feel free to sool the cops onto me – I had nothing to hide. So they claimed, ‘We can’t control the cows – they break out in the dry and head for green feed.’ They said that for seven years, until I finally had the jack of being nice to them and put a few blunt arrows into the cows that were trashing my trees, just before they were about to be taken to town and murdered.
“When the cattle came running home with a few shafts sticking out of their thick hides it was a dramatic sight – the blunted target tips didn’t penetrate and probably hurt about as much as a wasp sting, but the meat growers suddenly had no trouble at all controlling their herds; the meat was bruised and it cost them next week at the slaughterhouse. Those guys don’t send their cows my way any more and the forest has had a chance to grow back. And I haven’t had to cause any more pain or terror to any more of their poor gentle beasties. That’s their job. I’m a vegetarian.”
A small group was listening in by now as we warmed ourselves around the remaining blazing fire. “So the water’s fine then?” he asked.
“Aye – come on in,” I laughed. Mind you, it’s one of the only rivers that’s still drinkable anywhere on the eastern half of the continent.” I gestured across the paddock toward the winding Bellinger River. “This is one of the only other ones, and you can’t drink any of them once they’ve left the upper catchment.”
“Really?” a woman seated on the other side of me asked. “You can drink this one, here?”
“You’re drinking it now,” I told her with a glance at her coffee cup. Those taps over there come from big tanks up the hill, and they’re mostly filled with river water.”
“I didn’t realise.”
“The central amenities block here alone – showers, baths and washing machines – goes through twenty thousand litres a month, and most of that’s from the river. I wouldn’t drink river water in most other places, though,” I warned. “It’s all been trashed and poisoned. The towns downstream all drink fluoridated bore water; there’s plenty of water in the rivers that pass through them but it’s all toxic. Don’t even let it touch your skin anywhere near Coffs Harbour or any other place that grew bananas, for instance.”
“Where would you recommend?” the would-be land buyer enquired.
“I searched all over the country for ten years, looking for a place to live. One of my prerequisites was clean drinkable water that was plentiful and warm enough to swim in, and that ended up narrowing the search right down.” My little audience leaned closer; the dreadlocked man wasn’t the only one in search of a healthy new home.
“Right here is about as far as you can get from a city and still be in a green area. You see that escarpment?” I said, pointing at the nearby cliff on the other side of the river. “The only clean water left on the eastern slopes of New South Wales – and I certainly wasn’t going to live in goddamned Queensland or trashed Victoria; the only comfortable subtropical land in the country is around here, about thirty degrees south – the only clean water lies between that escarpment and the Kempsey basin. There are only about half a dozen pure streams left, and only in the upper catchments.”
“What about the Washpool, or the headwaters inland of Kempsey?” the young woman asked.
“Sure, if you want to go right out into the remote mountains you’ll find clean water, but it’s all icy cold and thoroughly isolated– except for the worst brands of murderous rednecks – and usually pretty small and impermanent flows. Not many people could hack moving way out there.  The best places are always where the mountain ranges approach the sea. That’s where the hippies all move to.
“As for Kempsey and the Macleay River – I was bothering someone from the government water department quite often a few months back and they ended up getting something off their chest to me; they’re not allowed to tell anyone that the entire Macleay is undrinkable, and they asked me to pass the news along. So I’m passing it to you. Humans and cattle are dying from cancer and from other things caused by the water all along the river.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s full of arsenic and heavy metals.”
“How come?”
“Old gold mines a hundred years or more ago at the headwaters – just like a lot of other places. All the coal mining country is fucked, too, and the mines are spreading out like toxic waste. But all the rivers in the Kempsey basin are fucked from the gold mining and the cows are poisoned, too. The toxic sludge gets thrown onto the paddocks every time it floods because they don’t maintain ‘filter strips’ of trees along the banks, as they’ve been supposed to by law since the 1840s. They’re all dying young and selling arsenic-tainted meat to idiot carnivores and keeping a lid on everything to maintain ‘land values’.”
“And land ‘values’ are so high – not just in the shitty city, but anywhere in the bush you’d want to live – that people have just about priced themselves out of a free happy life.”
“All those idiots in the suburbs who think they’re rich because their house is too expensive to keep unless they work like Trojans until they drop,” the woman observed. All attired in colourful partying glad rags, living on pittances in the most beautiful part of the best of all possible worlds, we smiled into the flames as one, reflecting upon our self-chosen good fortune.
“If you want to buy title to some land,” I told the dreadlocked man, “the entire headwaters of my valley’s for sale – it’s a defunct multiple occupancy that covers twelve hundred acres. There are about a dozen shares and the cheapest is – well, obscenely inexpensive – and only one person still lives there, tucked away in a comfortable place he built on a share way up the back. Or there are plenty of  freehold blocks, but they’re more pricey of course.
“If you prefer, I’ll give you a share in my place for free if you’re someone who won’t destroy the place. That way you can afford to set yourself up instead of spending everything you have and winding up broke.”
“How much land do you have?”
“I live on a couple of hundred acres, but most of it’s forest.”

Do It (For) Your Self

When one wishes to engage in deeper meditation or chakra work it’s wise to move far from the overpopulated habitats of domesticated primates. This isn’t merely to facilitate the expansion of one’s consciousness; it’s necessary to protect all those larval forms of as-yet-unevolved humankind from the transformations wrought by explorations of higher, deeper consciousness.

Everyone is interlinked, and societies all exist inside explosive hidebound mind fields that a truly focused mind can easily trigger.
You don’t want to wake or transform anyone but yourself. That’s the real lesson of the falsified crucified Jesus myth, after all. You have no right to affect or effect anyone’s conscious evolution but your own, and will cause great unnecessary suffering if you attempt to do so in others before they’ve chosen to awaken. You’ll freak them out, (wo)man. Your awakening awareness will rouse theirs before they are primed and ready to choose the path for themselves. All chicks have to peck their own way out of the shell of their personal egg. Otherwise they never truly mature and will be too weak to thrive, or even survive.
Besides, workaday workmanlike worms will only twist any genuinely potent enlightenment you successfully transmit (or attempt to impart) into effective brainwashing and ‘religious’ claptrap. It will all be misused to reinforce the primate pack mentality and egregious hierarchical power structures of larval humankind. If you start to wake them up they’ll likely put you down and wilfully go back to sleep.
If you want to pursue enlightenment be ready to abandon the urge to take anyone or anything along with you. Nothing but your most vital inner essence can pass through the Gate of Immortality. A rope cannot pass through the eye of a needle – ‘camel’ is a mistranslation wrought by unevolved Western monk(ey)s – and an egocentric personality cannot enter the brilliant heavens. Nor can it survive in paradise on Earth – not without destroying the place in futile search for the inspiring reality that always lurks within, patiently awaiting that enlightening moment when an immature aspirant finally opens their inner eye and casts off the superfluous.
In practice few truly break free until the day of their death, when the shell of the cosmic egg is shattered and the sweet bird of youth flies from the withered husk of self-damaged age.
Everything mundane and material pales to insignificance; the Gulf Stream and Atlantic Conveyor have shit down, though they may still restart before the northern hemisphere enters the next Ice Age. Floods, fires, firestorms, freezes, exponential increases in earthquake frequency and intensity, erupting volcanoes, reforming planetary magnetic fields, sunspot minimums, poisoned land and water and diminishing and polluted food supplies – for one with eyes to see the signs are unmistakable.
Don’t die wondering; live in wonder. Don’t wait until your personal Last Days. Live NOW!
Time appears to roll onward as the ball of the planet spins, creating the slow stroboscopic illusion of the passage of time…

- R. Ayana

Images – author’s
For further enlightenment see –
The Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author – and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites – you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…
From the Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

Snags – Ancient Perspectives and Blind Modern Groping


Ancient Perspectives and Blind Modern Groping

Peace Piece by you.

When I reached to grasp the nurseryman’s handshake he withdrew shattered remnants of healed-over flesh from the pocket of his baggy shorts. He introduced himself and grasped my proffered hand with the stumps of two fingers and the nubbin of an amputated thumb.

The biannual little plant fair in the local village was dusted with windborne scrapings from the far deserts, and the desiccated salt-crusted bed of distant Lake Eyre was soughing down on all and sundry like finely sieved flour. The surrounding landscape of rolling hills was rendered into a stylistic smudge of hillcrests rising from a greyish miasma that blocked out the daylight in a partial eclipse. The Sun had burned with an uncommonly sharp bite for the previous few weeks, but now the world was cloaked in grey and the solar bite was replaced with that of the chill ill wind.

A supertyphoon was massing over Southeast Asia and Half Past Human’s roving webbots had retrieved data suggesting dire cataclysms around the September Equinox. This led the website’s authors – who employ sophisticated algorithms that retrieve clues to the zeitgeist of the collective consciousness, on the premise that if individual humans are (at least) subconsciously psychic, then the collective babble of humanity as expressed on the worldwide web must be orders of magnitude more so – to make a prediction that has since borne spectacular fruit.

The site had previously made some notably accurate prophecies regarding the 2008 financial meltdown, among quite a few others. Their prognostications regarding recent seismic events – beginning almost three months ago, which is about the self-proclaimed limit of accurate forecasting for Half Past Human – indicated dangerous volcanic (or seismic) activity around the Pacific rim around the end of September, when the equinox falls.

This prediction is a remarkable near miss at the very worst, and in the light of the unprecedented – in both frequency and magnitude – run of recent earthquakes and resultant tsunamis this result should be considered accurate for all intents and purposes. It must be adjudged as evidence for the efficacy of HPH’s method, and perhaps for a fundamental concomitant truth; that humankind has the capacity to see beyond the veil of time.

Day after day the Earth rebelled in a chain of lethal rumbles, ranging from Indonesia to New Guinea, Tonga, Samoa and the isle of Santa Cruz – zones situated around the so-called Ring of Fire that girdles the planet like a twisting magmatic serpent. Tsunamis rose from the chaotic seas and populations dashed from crumbling buildings and made for higher ground, with the memory of the great killer Southeast Asian tsunami still fresh in the minds of many.

One may be forgiven for thinking that these events only seem remarkable because we have an accurate grasp of seismic events in the 21st Century. It’s a little-considered fact that since just before the dawn of the 20th Century we’ve been able to detect all quakes occurring anywhere on the globe with a magnitude of six or greater. There were a handful of such quakes in the first decade of the last century, and only a few more in the next decade. Quakes with a magnitude of seven or eight on the Richter scale were virtually unknown until recent decades, and have now become very familiar to millions of victims around the world. The frequency and magnitude of earthquakes has increased in a steeply rising curve across the globe over the course of the last hundred years.

This is only to be expected. The planet is warming in more ways than one and the crust is beginning to show the strain. Extraterrestrial and anthropogenic sources of heating are shifting vast masses of displaced ice and water around the world. The oceans weigh more than most people image and the planetary crust is thinned into shallow-bottomed basins by their mass, sunken between the thicker encrustations of continents.

Additional water flowing into the seas from the poles and melting glaciers displaces so much weight that the fractious fault lines of the planet are suffering from even more stress and strain than from all drilling and mining, past underground nuclear tests, current geothermal experiments, and innumerable other sundry damages caused by purblind burrowing humankind, in the unexamined treadmill quest for meaningless monetary progress.

It’s obvious that the old feudal paradigm will no longer suffice to meet the needs of the planet, or the requirements of the upgraded specimens of humanity many aspire to be and become. The best time to change our ways utterly, to find new methods of thriving on a healthy planet, is also the best time to plant fruit and nut trees – twenty years ago. But today is still a viable second best, while next year will be far too late.

Hippy Family by you.


The nurseryman shook my right hand with the stump of his. Such injuries are common among mill workers in the local timber and beef cattle towns, here on the east coast of Oz. Many digits or limbs have been severed or crushed in the quest to wrest money from the hard, hard wood of the eucalypt forests cloaking the rugged foothills of the Great Dividing Range.

Almost all such crippling injuries were delivered in devastating accidents with spinning blades, fast-moving belts or machinery, or sudden smashes by crushing loads of heavy wood. Very few of these once common stigmata are the result of insurance jobs – in which a finger could be swapped for a few thousand measly bucks – but such happenings are hardly unknown in impoverished, ignorant and desperate settings.

The nurseryman – who gave me a lopsided smile from beneath a typical mill worker’s cap – was selling Bangalow Palms he’d grown from seed on his hobby farm-sized lot just outside town. The youngest boy was with me, and both of us were looking pretty wild and woolly in the harsh dusty windstorm that knocked his potted palms flat with its blustery gusts. Even whilst Wonder Boy was picking pots up for him, the grizzled sunburned soul started a tirade against ‘those damn greenies’.

Greenies were ‘stopping men from making an honest wage’, ‘stopping them from cutting down useless old growth trees – just rotten wood, not worth a damn,’ and ‘stopping them letting some sunlight in for the saplings’; they were ‘all dupes of a city conspiracy, sucked in by people who reckoned carbon dioxide caused global warming’, and ‘there are plenty of trees, and the only endangered species is the farmer, because of the stupid rules they’re expected to follow’ (not that many do in the vast and convoluted landscapes of the Great Southland – inadequate environmental regulations are rarely enforced and the land is only overseen by its so-called ‘owners’); yet his rave unravelled onward and on with nary a word of dissent from me. After a number of similar fusillades, this human stereotype completed his rave with a dig at ‘those stupid greenies who stop you pulling logs and snags out of the river – from tidying things up and making them safe and neat.’

I was tempted to mention that the government had been paying good money for such logs and snags for years now, and was trucking them across hundreds of kilometres of (now) treeless desert and dry blowaway grass to the once mighty Murray River, where they were putting the tree trunks back into the near-lifeless water – to replace those pulled out and burned by misguided speedboat-owning, oil-spewing bank-trashers and destructive neatness freaks. After pulling billions of trees from the verges of the mightiest river system on the continent, there are literally none left along incredibly long stretches of this infamously trashed national waterway – no protection of washaway soil, no stabilisation of crumbling banks, no shade to prevent evaporation, and no common sense, environmental awareness or scientific intelligence.

But what would be the point of arguing with him? He was too old and debilitated to do any more damage to rivers or forests, too crusty to change his ways, and far too belligerent to seriously consider making the attempt; not with my wide-eyed ten year-old in tow at the gossipy local village plant fair. I went and spoke to the other stallholders, almost all of whom proved to be card-carrying greenies, all selling wide ranges of various species of local and exotic trees and other plants, while the soil of the continent blew overhead and made algae bloom in the far Pacific, while Mother Earth prepared to toss and tumble, turn and grumble not far below.

yellow carrabbean by you.

The next day I ran into man-mountain Brian, erstwhile head man in the local Aboriginal Land Council. He beamed down at me over his whitening beard as we stood by the new surveillance camera set onto the

token clock tower in the midst of Main Street and discussed local and broader events. After a while and out of the blue he proceeded onto the topic of snags in the river. “You know they’re pulling out all the logs again,” the elder said, “and half of the jiddi logs, too.” ‘Jiddi’ is the cobera worm, a favourite delicacy among the few local tribes that have access to this locally distributed seasonal rarity; I’ll probably not discuss it further in this public forum – not unless the elders say otherwise.

“No cover for the fish, and you know what’s worse if you pull them all out?” he asked with a rhetorical air. “The rivers silt up. If you leave those logs on the bends in particular, they sweep out all the gravel and silt in the floods. The bends stay deep and cool. If you don’t, the rivers silt up and dry out, like they have all around.”

I agreed, casting my mind’s eye back home, where a massive trunk sleeps at the perpetually deep bend in the crooked creek, providing a channel for currents that churn out the detritus of a century of land clearing and aggrocultural abuse – all on behalf of a crumbling pyramid of inedible cash in the distant anthill termite cities, whose non-conspiring willing workers flush the world away down toxic pipes and burn swathes through the world forest with each languid flick of a switch.

The daily casual damage to rivers, soils and the landscape in general is unbelievable to anyone with an ounce of common sense and a dram of eyesight, let alone foresight. I could rant and rave for hours about leaving the banks alone and keeping the cattle away from the broad filter strips we need to grow and maintain along all our streams and rivers – but what would be the point? These controls are already well-established in the laws of most advanced countries; laws so poorly enforced by lazy time-serving officials that the once pristine water in most waterways is toxic to humans and animals.

Unless you procure your drinking water from an unpolluted sky (ho ho) or a pure groundwater source (ha ha), the stuff in your taps is laced with stultifying aluminium and chlorine, and don’t even start me on tranquillising sodium fluoride rat poison – just find out for yourself (you might read the recent EU judgement on the matter)! Pure water is a thing of the past in most places, and the modern industrial version they pump into your house is being rapidly privatised in a world where increasing scarcity means temporarily greater profits.

But not around here. We ‘greenies’ kept the forests around the upper catchments of this valley intact as we could, by standing up to the mighty bulldozers, implacable cops and standover merchants behind the curtain, who move their ignorant contractors and enforcers like pawns on a cutaway chessboard. We kept them from the rivers and the hills and from the ridges all around. Many of the rainbow warriors and earth defenders (derided as ‘dirty hippies’, ‘filthy ferals’, ‘stupid peasants’, ‘impressionable aborigines’ and ‘city greenies’) still do, every day – probably somewhere not far from where you’re sitting and reading at this very moment.

Out here in hippified swathes of countryside (that you probably haven’t seen or even heard of) we’re slowly witnessing the fruits of our labours turn greener and fresher, while the rest of the world turns a fecund planetary paradise into a toxic industrial wasteland under the tombstone catch-cries of ‘progress’ and ‘industriousness’. Most people won’t know the value of water until their own privatised well runs dry, and the taps finally deliver only grave dust from the desiccated heart of their vampirised Mother Earth.

Now witness the slow-motion apocalypse occurring before every punter’s dazed and overworked eyes – devastating changes are all happening in a geological eyeblink while we wander along, failing to notice the signs of impending demise, making a date with density.

The world is changing; it’s not just events which always occurred beyond our purview suddenly becoming apparent due to advances in modern communications. No. ’Fraid not. The writing’s on the wall, friend. Everybody knows.

There’s still time to discover your place in the real living world, away from the entrancing pneumatic throb of money and status. Find clean water. Plant a forest (but don’t build a house on the beach or under a volcano). Discover the true inner self you haven’t had time for. Become a snag in the mainstream – a sensitive new age guy, gent or girl, an eddy that slows the onrushing flow to the falls. Save the world. Save yourself. Love someone. Life is awaiting. Turn on. Tune in. Opt out together, today not tomorrow…

Start by clicking this screen that stands between you and the REAL world off – or not. The choice is up to you; red pill or blue?

gumbaynggirr dancers  by you.

- R.A.

Images – author’s

See the Ringwood Agreements

For further enlightenment see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

The New Illuminati

( These sites are about to be closed along with ALL the free Geocities sites -

Save the World from RamPage


RingWood )

(These sites have been locked by Today.com and this author no longer has access to his own blogs – Enlightenment Today

Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )

The Prince of Centraxis

This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author – and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites – you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…

From The Rainforest Home of the Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

Powered by Blog.com