Discordia

Do a Cert IV in Aged Care there's a good chance that at some point you'll find yourself stumbling around a room blindfolded, sporting noise-cancelling headphones and boots full of ball-bearings. A nurse rushes you around the room by your arm, stopping for what seems like a millisecond to let you attempt tasks that usually require some level sight and less sole-destroying footwear. 

It's a frustrating exercise designed to give future carers empathy for the people that will depend on them. While that isn't exactly the purpose of Discordia, there are some definite similarities to the absurd journey into the Discordians' alien point of view and being shuffled around in the dark.

Descending to the Fairfax Studio foyer through a layer of dry ice fog and lavender lighting there's a distinct feeling of leaving Earth's atmosphere. At the bottom of the stairs a large bearded man dressed entirely in leather and wielding a leaf blower decked out like a leather cannon directs half the audience members towards the bar and the other half toward a simulated airport security check.

In one corner a Celine Dion cutout in a $23 'God Hates Prawns' shirt stands next to an out-of-stock merch deck. In another there's a conical tower cobbled together from fire-damaged antique chairs by artist Aly Aitken. Closer inspection reveals teeth, wings, hooves and ears sewn into the cushions, creating the kind of hellish aesthetic usually reserved for paintings by Hieronymus Bosch. After passing through security or grabbing drinks some people switch places, but most just kind of mill about in this curious limbo.

Universal 'please take your seat' beeps begin to chime, eventually being absorbed by Mark Mitchell's ecstatic synth-driven score. Finally we catch our first glimpse of the latest, and likely the only living converts to Discordianism - the worship of chaos of as laid out by Greg Hill and Kerry Wendell Thornley's 'sacred text' The Principia Discordia in the '60s.

Dressed uniformly in glittery beige wetsuits with voluminous shoulder-length bobs, like a cadre of Grugs with square-cut fringes, they appear on the landing above and with hive-mind synchronicity unfurl a banner that reads 'Living May Cause Death'. These kinds of anti-slogans - the point is there is no point, life is banal and beautiful - form the core doctrine of the Church of Holy Chaos.

The absurdist collective attempt to blur the line between reality and fiction, and certainly between artist and audience. What started as an art project has evolved into a genuine attempt to legitimise a religion. Narration from SBS World News' Lee Lin Chin informs us that the church's demands are currently with government officials, referring to us as hostages, and as the Discordians move through the crowd hugging people at random there are strong Jonestown vibes.

Once we've cleared security we're led through the winding utility tunnels beneath the building, witnessing different rites and aspects of Discordia laid out - Celine Dion shrines, mounds of plastic chickens, simulated masturbation to psychedelic prawn videos. Reaching the end we're given paper bags by more leathermen and enter a space with undulating golden space blankets for walls. Having traversed the secret bowels of the building we're born again (literally, from a giant golden cosmic egg sac) like Jonah springing forth from the whale — ready for indoctrination.

For the third act the audience finally take their seats as part of a televised faith/fundraiser featuring several blistering, nonsensical sermons from Discordian and "former country music singer" Simone Page Jones interspersed with skits and some amusing dance routines.

The whole experience is a visually astounding trip, particularly Will and Garrett Huxley's costume designs. But the philosophy the Discordians claim to be realising feels like a smokescreen designed to mystify rather than provoke, which saps much of the power from their punch. Maybe take their advice and accept there is no point, just enjoy it.