By Kai Teo
Säljeryd, Småland, Sweden
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Säljeryd isn’t just an off-grid hippie commune littered with colourful huts and caravans. It’s an invitation to step back into the glorious 60s, where humans still believed in humanity and simplicity, and we didn’t have push-up bras and spray tans. Or a forward leap into a post-apocalyptic sustainable future where humans have finally realised that the whole concept of a city and today’s system of governance and living is a mere bunch of bullshit.
And of course, this year’s Dance of the Planets has to be held in this mystical land where the love revolution never ended.
The typical Swedish summer weather blessed us with fuck loads of clouds and intermittent heavy rains that washed away our face paint, wet our dreadlocks, and flooded our tents. But even if Thor himself had descended upon us and decided to strike the dance floor with lightning, we would have taken it as a sign of approval and continued stomping up the mud and spraying it all over our sweaty souls.
We first arrived at the crack of dawn after an arduous journey involving loads of wine, a smoking car engine that was constantly pushed to its limits, philosophical discussions that tackled the age-old question of the purpose of life, a breakdown, a three-hour wait for rescue, and an uncontrollable urge to break into sudden impulsive dance in the passenger seat.
No time was wasted in beautifying my tent that was set up haphazardly, with my well-trained festival tent-setting skills under the influence of cheap white wine (organic). Execution was methodological, swift, and almost army-like (Love Commando style).
Within minutes, I had put on a new bindi, swallowed some breakfast, taken a few selfies, did my stretches, and was ready to go.
My mind and my body and my soul, was racing, as I promptly marched past the Chill-out floor, past the makeshift but perfectly cosy huts and caravans, and immersed myself immediately in the embrace of the angry electronic gallop of the 40-feet tall robot unicorn.
The beats were harder than a porn star’s penis on half a bottle of Viagra, and the pew pew pew cliché psytrance sounds were divine. Seeing the familiar faces on the floor, I beamed, I hugged, and held back my throw-up as my breakfast started to kick in.
The entire stage was lit up with the most intense of UV lights, and besides illuminating the dried semen on one of the hippie’s forehead, the lights also highlighted the incredibly painted backdrops and psychedelic art that helped fuelled our imaginations and propelled our mental journeys to the source of all creation, or god, or Matrix, or whatever you choose to call it.
As my mind ventured into the outer limits of existence, and fluttered around the black holes of our multi-verses, I found the Holy Lion staring straight into my eyes. It glowed a bright fiery orange, and the intensity in its eyes was not one of fury, but of infinite wisdom and power. Observing the dance floor from the front of the DJ console, its presence was accentuated with geometric symmetries that reflected the blueprint of creation.
I was briefly introduced to the artist that came up with all the paintings on the festival, and to be honest, I was too star struck to make a proper conversation, and well, I was consumed by my own thoughts of spaceships and unborn alien babies as well.
The morning sun provided some much needed warmth and plucked us out from the darkness of the night, and our minds. The music lightened up a little, so our sunrise music was more like a porn star’s penis with half a pill of Viagra. Still intense, but not murderous.
And the first day ended with me falling asleep in a hammock by the Chill-out floor. Too tired by my high-speed adventures with Alice and the Mad Hatter, I blacked out, and somehow ended up in my own tent.
I was rudely awakened by drops of rain assaulting my forehead. Swedish fucking summer. And made-in-fucking-China tent. So that was my morning exercise – soaking up the little oceans from the cosy canvas, saving my packets of bindis from getting wet. After that, I bid farewell to sleep, cursed the weather, drank a little bottle of some cheap children’s chocolate drink with a bear on the packaging, and headed back to where I belonged, the dance floor.
Day two and three melted together in a flurry of neon colours, powered by a thousand micrograms of presents and love, my “I am a goddess of dance” bullshit swaying madly to the music, banging my beads on my chest, and some alcohol and peanuts.
I would like to tell all of you that I had countless revelations, felt really strongly about the entire festival, loved everyone with all my heart, and once again bonded with the family.
But unfortunately, this time, my mind was mostly a blank. And most of what happened in there were my own sexual fantasies in zero gravity space stations, in the presence of the mechanical Lion King staring with its lustful eyes while subtly masturbating behind a plastic blow-up pillow.
Nevertheless, the festival was indeed an insane blast. Perhaps too insane for my brain to properly process any form of information. And with that, I know it’s a 4.5/5. You didn’t get full marks because you failed to control the weather. Sorry. And I love you.