I wake abruptly to a ringing phone. A familiar voice on the line: “This is your Sunday morning wake up call. Come to the hay bales. We are about to take acid.”
The path that led to this most earnest of Sunday traditions involves the energies of many. With time and practise, the ceremony has been honed to perfection by a devoted - some would say obsessive - collection of individuals. The quest? To PLAY. (And of course To WIN.)
Two teams roughly cleaved by various allegiances. One drop of liquid acid each to be administered publicly to great adulation. Preferably at dawn.
Two teams roughly cleaved by various allegiances. One drop of liquid acid each to be administered publicly to great adulation. Preferably at dawn.
The first challenge is issued. It’s a fairly easy one – the man who has issued it certainly has a vested interest – as does the team member who manages to win the first easy 5 points: for obtaining and delivering a pack of king skins.
As the first waves LSD crawl in from the edges, those in the tent take on a warm glow, a humming sense of togetherness. We will remain in this group – intentionally or not – for the day. Roaming the playground playing the games, winning points, moving as a stretched and hectic unit all with the same intent. This is us, we will triumph. We have triumphed.
As the first waves LSD crawl in from the edges, those in the tent take on a warm glow, a humming sense of togetherness. We will remain in this group – intentionally or not – for the day. Roaming the playground playing the games, winning points, moving as a stretched and hectic unit all with the same intent. This is us, we will triumph. We have triumphed.
First team to get Shiv’s wristband from her sleeping wrist. First team to bring Shiv herself to the group. First team to collectively summit the pyramid of haybales. First person to bring group Bloody Mary’s. (50 points for ice.)
Our photographer snaps us, capturing the moments forever. But really they are all indelibly etched. Those lines trace way back now. Connecting so many.
I have long valued the art of playing that has been honed in the garden. It’s shaped me and my friends, it’s shaped our friendships and the way we lead our lives. The realisation that everything is right. The acceptance that anything is possible. The knowledge that you make your own luck. The beauty that good people find and reflect and make each other.
Another wave of something hits. Perhaps it’s the group re-load we voted on earlier – or the crystals we just sprinkled into our icy drinks. As the day ages, pan out to widescreen, we can see a lake, dragon-fly at its centre. Pan further still you’ll see our famous landmarks. The undulating ground that teams with memories.
I think this will be my 12th SGP. It’s not a festival. It’s a part of life. Integral to the people I have come to know as family. It’s the place at which we all physically (and psychedelically) connect. This connectivity is present year round now. I can feel it. Love which stretches across time zones, flies over oceans unsaid. Universally felt.
Secret Garden Party is emblematic of what connects us – but it’s also helped us to learn what that is - this ever-expanding momentum of the most inspiring people: love, freedom, awesomeness. Stupidity, recklessness, hilarity. Wildness, weirdness, a fuck-it seizing of the day. And that deep knowledge that we are all in it together. Dress as your best self. Truly shine – cause you do. And let it all hang out. This is the place where we are truly free.
Writing this now it is dawning on me how unbelievably lucky we all are to have been at this epicentre – contributing to this utterly magical nebula of vibes. So here we go, with love and thanks, to send her off with a fucking bang.
Peace all the way out…
