Summoning the Gods
In those wretched dreams he was trekking, tracking, walking, driving up through the Himalayas, up to some mysterious place of solitude or nirvana or some place where the heavens kissed the earth.
His car had been stolen by some latter day hippies he had been naïve enough to trust. Somewhere outside Kathmandu. Somewhere near Ladakh. Somewhere like the Valley of the Flowers, where he had been before.
He made it first to some staging post, a resort where people gathered at tables on some great elevated square overlooking the valleys that spun down through so many magic moments.
In the real realm, well the realm where he now found himself, a phony election campaign which had been going on since the beginning of 2025 was finally about to become real. A pallid Magoo like character with idiot glasses and a nasal accent, the entirely unimpressive Anthony Albanese, was preparing to face the electorate he had so comprehensively betrayed.
Australia had become a pale echo of America, or Britain, even Europe, swamped by mass immigration, plummeting living standards, a deep and divisive loyalty to government among those who watched and wondered, an incompetent government whose level of insouciance and disregard for their fellow citizens defied belief, all of it a tragic record of a once proud, humble, hard working country.
They used their own money to buy their votes, those in power, those weak blubbering entities easily bought, without foresight, without integrity, without intellectual capacity. So it was. So it will be bought. Falling living standards, falling living standards. And a callow, opportunistic, dishonest if you wanted his view; poor old Albo, he had to face the very people he had so badly betrayed. And his desperate, flaccid attempts to buy love, it was all over. There were, now, other forces at play, good, evil, calm, outside the flow of material time. The eagle eye never blinked.