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FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 19: Tara and Cheyenne arise early and return to the festival to attend a workshop by Lucy Cavendish, titled “Change your Life with Witchcraft.” Cheyenne wants to attend. The festival program describes the workshop: “This positive and inspiring seminar will introduce you to the healing powers of deity magic, ancient knowledge and sacred seasons. Learn to connect with your own magical energy using invocation, spell craft and magical divination. Discover magical secrets for personal growth, abundance, love and success.” I have a light breakfast across the street from our apartment at an open-air cafe. The face flies want me and they want my breakfast. I eat quickly, and when I back away from the remains of my meal, they are willing to leave me alone for a few moments. After an hour in a non-Chinese internet cafe, I return to the festival to do a solo Speaker’s Cafe talk. The area is packed, and my audience leans into me with open body language. They are fascinated with the subject of “soul agreements.” After this commitment, I told Tara and Cheyenne to meet me at a nearby McDonalds. “McDonalds?” Tara cannot perceive of going near such a place. “American food. American coffee, which no one else has, salads, yogurt concoctions,” I say in my own defense. While making notes at a table inside McD’s, I jump upon realizing a very strange bird is standing next to me. It is about 24 inches high, dark head with a long curved beak and white feathers. “Hello, Bird.” It looks sad. This is an act it has probably honed to perfection in quest of a handout. I, however, have nothing to share but coffee, and my coffee is far too precious to share with any living thing. The bird eyes me suspiciously, but finally moves on to another table. Tara and Cheyenne join me and order veggie burgers, which they are soon feeding to the bird.
No one knows. It attacks a hamburger bun with a ferocity that causes surrounding pigeons to scatter for their lives. “Damn.” I decide it is an egret. Eat outside, you get face flies, inside an egret. A McD’s employee chases the bird away, but it comes right back. I have a three-hour, solo “Soul Agreements” workshop from 5:30 to 8:30 PM. Tara would normally wander off and explore the festival booths, but recalling yesterday, she remains in the back of the room. The workshop is nearly sold out. Still a bit spacey, I decide to forget my notes and just wing my way through the presentation. Thankfully, it seems to work. Cheyenne handles the back table sales like a pro. She knows as much about our CDs as I do, because she uses them herself and plays them for her friends. At home, it is not unusual to open her bedroom door and find a dozen teenagers lying on the floor in trance being past-life regressed with one of my CDs ... or taking a Native American journey with one of Tara’s. We exit the festival into pouring rain. The temperature has dropped and the wind is whipping. At least there are no face flies. We are drenched by the time we find a cab to take us back to our hotel. I’m used to having people stop me to ask questions, but the primary question I am being asked in Australia is, “How did your election come out the way it did?” People are quick to point out they know I am not personally responsible, but they are upset. New Agers tend to be liberal, peace-loving people. Please notice I said, “tend to be.” I cannot speak for all New Agers, nor will I get into any political altercations in person or via e-mail. Today, on George Street, a man with shaggy white hair was slowly pushing a wheeled hand-lettered sign saying “BUSH IS THE NUMBER ONE TERRORIST.” On the way in from the airport, the words “FUCK USA” were scrawled across a blue ceramic wall. Our cab driver quickly apologized, assuring us that Aussies love Americans. I already knew that. I believe Australians are Americas best friends, and I have never before seen or heard such sentiments expressed here.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20: I am still trying to adapt to thinking of today as tomorrow in America. It’s Saturday, 9 AM here. It’s Friday, 2 PM in Los Angeles, 5 PM in New York.
Across from the Opera House, across the bay, Sydney Harbor Bridge looms large. They now allow people to climb a narrow walkway to the top, if you’re willing to go with a guide and be tethered to other climbers. I would like very much to do this, but Tara and Cheyenne roll their eyes in response to my suggestion.
Rain forces us to cab back to the apartment. With tip, it costs $20, so I guess we walked many miles. Tonight at the festival, Tara presents a workshop titled, “Native American Meditations.” The program copy says, “Tara is one-quarter Blackfoot, and a powerful Shaman. She will present three meditations and she’ll provide you with the meaning of symbols and visions you receive. “Shaman Journey,” “The Path,” and “Insights: The Medicine Wheel” will help you better understand your life and future directions.” When I enter the workshop room to setup the audio for my wife, the previous speaker is putting away her materials. We introduce ourselves. She is Noel Nelson from the US, and the author of a new book titled, “The Power of Appreciation.” We soon find that we both live in California, both in Malibu, and only a couple blocks apart. The first American we meet in Oz is a neighbor. Tara is on stage from 5 to 8:30 PM. I introduce her. She views life as a shaman and she can interpret symbols better than anyone. So after each meditation, the participants tell her what they received, or saw, or took out of a box, or gave away. She responds with explanations, while also using her psychic talents to explain more than the symbols have revealed. |
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To continue the Australia |
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“What kind of bird is it?”
After a quick inside breakfast at a
backpacker’s cafe, we head out on a long walk from our hotel to Circular Quay and the Sydney Opera House -- one of the world’s most unique architectural masterpieces. I have seen and
explored it on our previous visits, and I am always amazed.