KALAKUTA!

Badger Priests trained in the Warrens. Intefered with by prurient old zealots in purple robes.
When the Badger Priests begin to manifest signs of sexual maturity they must surrender their badger pelt.
"Father, I suffered night-emissions, here is my pelt"
a solemn moment. the child's head is bent in shame. there is great sadness but no Badger Priest would ever dream of dissembling. Plod sees everything.
"Mother, my womb drips blood, here is my pelt"

Robes of stained glass, mosaics of glitering glass and jewels sewn into flowing fabrics. Sequins. Materials which bewitch the light. Jewelery.Ceremonial antlers.
Robespierre! He wears the antlers of office! His men and women shimmer in robes which seduce the sun!
The children follow their path, dancing and laughing...
The Ark on the Rock.... The Republic.... In the courtyard men and women beat enormous drums
An enormous bonfire burns and there the light flickers and is blurred with smoke
Lagbaja! The Faceless One! Lagbaja dances in smoke haze....
Lagbaja dances in orange flicker of flame and shadow, movements like those of the flame
Lagbaja! The children crowd around him laughing and shouting. As he dances he mimics those around him, he snatches Robespierre's antlers and mocks his striaght backed gravitas, he gestures regally, he frowns and sighs
he extrudes his arse and makes vigourous pelvic thrusts, he bounces his arse up and down and rolls his hips, he falls into a press-up position and humps the dirt with infectious relish.....
he rolls back his eyes and raises his arms to the sky in a parody of trance, becomes possessed, writhes in the dirt
he mimes a prissy, rigidly choreographed dance routine of the sort practised by Ricky Dandelion
he goose steps, stands to attention, salutes, breaks into the Dandelion dance again....
He struts over to Robespierre, sashaying his hips, his lips drawn into a pout and slaps him on the arse
stands behind him and starts a grinding into him in a parody of exuberant lust
Robespierre can't help but laugh, he snatches back his antlers and the pair of them execute the Dandelion dance in perfect synchronisation
horns blow
Robespierre breaks into song
Lagbaja is joined by two beautiful young women, one on either side, they sway to the music and play the role of back-up vocalists
Everyone sings. Everyone dances.
Look around. Through the fire smoke. Through the swift limbs of dancing bodies.
The compound is built of mud and stone. It is centred around the courtyard in which we stand. The building is a scuplture. Its walls are decorated with paintings and low reliefs. These are built up communally with no coherent plan, in the way a city wall comes to swarm with graffiti. Image and word.
Walls are topped with spiralling pinnacles like sea-shells, minarets and pyramids. Walls and roofs sag and bulge, curve and writhe like the edges of a burning candle. Wax moulded by fire. Lava cooling to rock.
This building is not based on the cube. It is not a series of boxes. Walls are prickly or goosebumped or ridged. Conical forms like termite mounds protrude from the floor. Sculpted forms of men, women, gods and demons begin to free themselves from the walls, begin to find form, half-embedded in the building. Facades assume the stylised forms of faces, human and animal.
The decoration is maniacal. All space is filled. Plants grow everywhere. Trees fill rooms, stretch branches through the roof. Creepers reach out feelers along every vertical plane. Plants grapple for light. Birds are everywhere, indoors and out. Singing and fluttering. The roofs are thick and green gardens. Plants droop lazy limbs over roof tops. Dangle idly in the air.

There are people everywhere. Wandering through the corridors. Courting and kissing in the roof gardens. Reading in the libraries and under fruit trees, playing instruments and dancing in the courtyard, flirting and talking and laughing. Lying on cushions. Laughing on cushions. Listening and talking and joking. Children playing and running, leaping like rabbits in long grass.
People studying. Reading. Lost in thought. In rooms whitewashed and soundproofed. Free from noise and distraction. Meditating in the whitewashed cells.

Always music. Landscape of sound. Sound glitters on foothills. Sound sun rising over sound hills.
Time expands. Becomes multi-levelled. The moment strectched accordian-like. Layers. Move up and down within the moment.

Always talk. Always communication. Mind-meld. Communion. Always listening. Connect.
Ideas dart and leap from mind to mind. Dart across space. Electric thought. Mind reaches out to mind.

The Ark on the Rock is deep inside Nogo. Within the walls.
It maintains links with all the most established dissident groups existing in Establishment territory. The Tombstone Kids, the Cimmarrons, etc and has inspired dozens more. There is a network of tunnels extending from within Nogo to the outside.
This is the hive where the bees are buzzing. Where they fly out from. Where they return to.
Kalakuta!
Republic of Rapscallions! Rogues and Rascals!
Where no government holds a mandate. Where no law holds.
Swarm through the tunnels. There is no where they cannot reach. Every shanty town, every lawless no man's land, every military compound and factory floor has hosted them. They allow no pool to lie still and stagnant. Information always. Flow of thought, idea, change. Information.

Robespierre is the face. Lagbaja is the faceless.