Ask Dr. Druid . day 17 . Pansexual

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 17

Pansexual

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This piece will read best for you

 if you read it with your mouth as if out loud.
[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

 

in which the World, depraved, is saved

 

        Itshehimwe doesn’t have a sexual orientation per se. Itshehimwe has an inclusive lust, an encompassing tenderness. Itshehimwe covets the stark vast beauty and ache of the distance between the stars. The stoicism, the chaste patience of the desert rock outcroppings. The gorgeous violence of coupling horses. The strut, the rut.

    The sheer celebration and might of the oak tree’s offering its vast leafiness to the sapphire sky. The oak tree, master conjurer, turns dirt and water into bark, magnificence, elixir sap, and all those leaves.

    The voluptuousness of a cup of cocoa. Eyes, ears, tongue, nose, skin, bark, pads of leopards, semi-permeable membranes of amoebas — all designed to savor.

    The delicate tips of palm fronds crackling like fire in the setting sun, reading like braille the evening gossip of zephyrs.

    Itshehimwe covets and savors each of these. 

    The Great Freedom of the 21st century on the planet EarthVuravuraJeegoo was our Escape from the narrow, genital-obsessed notions of Desire into the Delights of Pansex. Many poets had had glimpses of the unprejudiced lust and tenderness that floods the Whole Wide World, tiny and monumental, but only in the 21st century did we all become poets. After Itshehimwe’s visit.

    It was on <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />11/22/11, November 22, 2011, of the Old Reckoning when Itshehimwe visited. Whatever you were doing, cooking a cheese-and-chive omelet, walking down the street looking at the new books in the store window, feeding the calves with their rorschach black-and-white hides and slippery wide rubbery noses, whatever you happened to be doing, Itshehimwe spoke. Wake up. Welcome.

    Whatever you were touching or tasting or attending became riveting. Your own bone marrow, the glistening eyeballs of the first person you sawin and through all of it, Itshehimwe spoke all the day. We were never the same after Itshehimwe came. The pungent, raucous joy; the simple, serene, silly revelation.

    Everyone heard it. Was imbued, hued by it. No one had more of it or was more or less sure of it. All churches joined hands, dancedpranced. Sporadically, suddenly, frequently now, once a month or half-year, Itshehimwe would visitWake up Welcome. And when Itshehimwe laughed out loud, the thrill, the shiver, the chill, the lava melting of fear and hate, the hullabaloo, the hurrah.

    In Panda Bare’s historic interview with Itshehimwe, she asked, “Itshehimwe, why did you wait so long to visit?”

    Itshehimwe giggled. “Bloody hell, Panda, we thought we were shouting all along. Murmuring, whispering, cajoling, flirting. Who could look at their own hand and not know they’d been wrought by genius? Who could look at the big blue sky filled with cloud toys and not hear laughter of the gamboling gods?

    “Do you know how much blue it takes to cover the whole wide sky? Who could see the sea and not see us? It was harder to pry open your eyes, ears, and tongue than we thought. Honey, we’ve been hollering the whole time.”

    Suddenly Itshehimwe looked slightly stern and Panda Bare held her breath, hoping not to be turned to a cinder in a careless moment of deitific pique. Panda Bare had been chosen for this interview because she was used to stark naked encounters with the Nature of Reality. She was a metaphysical stripper who liked the magnificently turbulent Edge where the Future boiled into being in scarlet and emerald waves of ecstatic tumult. The raw rhapsodic Future before it was tidied up and pastelled down for mortal consumption.

    Panda Bare was a shaman pilot for the disoriented in the interstellar time storms which buffeted some searching souls. However, cheek to jowl with Itshehimwe was violently vivid. Any mistake on either side and Panda’s molecules could be fried.

    “Frankly,” Itshehimwe continued, “we’d like you all to work out if possible. Our deitific reputation is on the line. Somewhere along the way you all got tangled up in a spiritual snarl and you lost teleology, the belief in beauty. Even the most imbecilic, myopic detective should see the blazing evidence, the reason and rhyme, the luminous signs of design any and everywhere.

    “The notion that Awe and Passion need interfere with Clarity and Focus is the error of so-called science. And then your Palaces of Piety neglect the splendid engineering particular to the daily solid plane — the fact that your waking life is so sturdy and reliable.

    “We,” Itshehimwe pulsed and flickered like a huge sky full of restless lightning, “we are very proud of the engineering. Getting the joints in your hands to work so nicely for sixty years is a neat feat. Though we try to eschew arrogance, we are vain enough to enjoy an attentive appreciation by our audience.”

    Panda Bare cleared her throat and licked her lips, “Itshehimwe, we appreciate your stopping by for such a special chat.” Itshehimwe beamed and tickled Panda with a boisterous splash of tingling color.

    Looking mischievously sly, Itshehimwe snickered and added, “Remember that what is beautiful is not always pretty. We do bats, vultures, spiders, and fungus too.”

..<^>….

Notes: When Itshehimwe gets here, you’ll be a lot happier if you have already gotten used to wider octanes of attentions and plusdepan or more-all. The extra-light that will flood the planet will freak out your dear circuits if you are still stuck in DullnessVille. You’d probably recover, but your nervous frenziness would be darned uncomfortable. It will help if your grammar has gotten out of its whalebone corset. You’ll be lots more zippitydodah if you’ve horded up a huge stockpile of Vitamin I because Itshehimwe is nothing if not monstrously into practical jokes and whimsy and gallons of grog made with wry. You may wish Itshehimwe didn’t find making pretzels of your perceptions so darned droll, but c’est will be la vie. So cheer up. Itshehimwe will knead your dough until you do accept the yeast and rise. So if you’re already croissant and champagne of mind and heart and spleen when Itshehimwe arrives, luckier you.

   When in doubt, default to droll.

….

images.. both from australia dreaming gallery; title slice from eunice napanangka jack;  excerpt pict from craig allan charles; 

..pan .. combining form meaning all;

..plusdepan .. more of all; pron ploo-duh-pan;

..Vitamin I .. vitamin irony;

.. rorschach is the ink blot tests you make by squeezing a blob of ink between a fold of paper & making up stories about the strange patterns. The black and white Holstein dairy cows look rather like rorschach tests on the hoof, or as I am wont to say ‘Modern Art on the hoof.’ As Mowgli was brought up by panthers and bears, I was brought up by the black and white Holstein dairy cows. As a very young child, I used to lie in the pasture on my back and they would circle all around me with their enormous glossy fringed eyes gazing upon me and they would snorffle me with their great rubbery noses. It was extremely comforting and we dwelt in a communing of happiness under the blue glory of the sky.                

…<^>..

…………<^>…………

Ask Dr. Druid, 66 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of  Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21; Day 22; Day 23; Day 24; Day 25; Day 26; Day 27; Day 28; Day 29;

……..……<^>………..…..

If you know or are an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. askdrdruid@gmail.com. Please put ‘agent’ in the subject line.

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

…………….<^>……………..

Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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copyright ask dr. druid 2007 all rights reserved

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It’d be great if you sent pogblog’s link to your friends:
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.dedicated to bombadilobo.

<^>..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead ..

………….<^>…………….

Ask Dr. Druid … Day 16 … Bylar, my other planet

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 16

Bylar, my other planet

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This piece will read best for you
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 with your mouth as if out loud.
[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

   When I first found out, I didn’t want to be from another planet. It’s like finding out you’re adopted. It’s disorienting. Like after your first major earthquake, you never feel the same simple sureness again. Obviously when people ask you where you’re from, you say, “The Eastern Shore of Maryland.” Saying “I’m from Bylar, a planet of intricate beauty where all sentience is irrevocably lost” is not an ice-breaker in the earth-based social swirl.

    Oh Bylar. The last time she had been there, no animal or bird or grasshopper stirred. Only trees, grasses, and the wind. She stood for a moment in a graveyard on the top of a small hill. Here, crystallized, was why Bylar was wondrous. What had been lost. On Bylar, graves were not marked by cold stones. They were marked by large whimsical wind toys. The departed devised these playful mementos along as they lived, to leave in token of gratitude and delight. She put her right palm on the ground and then placed it over her heart. She listened to the amused clacking of the wooden toys as they played with the mischievous wind. Suddenly in spite of the rustle of the grasses and the droll clatter of the toys in the wind, like the wild creature she was, she heard the cold silence and tasted the bitter metal tang of fear.

    In an instant with a last glance she stole the magic of her birthplace and tucked it as deep in her heart as she could hide it. She ran down the hill toward the glade, and the evil which had killed all her kin and kind scythed after her to slay this last consciousness on the planet Bylar.

    She hid by a tree in the dappled glade in the deep green shadows, breathing silently. She muted her naked soul to almost death. She felt the restless bleak evil for only a moment thwarted. It had killed her kin without notice; it was not glad of that; it was just evil.

    She felt it waiting to spring. She was perfectly trapped. She gathered all her heart and nerve and flung herself from her home into the ether. She smelled the scorched air as she fled. And knew somehow so strangely that somehow it had let her escape as if it could not quite quench every trace of Bylar from the Worlds. Or was it prevented?

    Bylar. Only me to speak thy fluid fluent loving tongue. Rowdy soft splashing fire and waterfall of flame words are alive to us and I hold you in my words’ embrace with the passion and affection that I might kiss your mouth if I were near enough to feel your smile and taste your breath as we breathe together and do not know whose heart is beating louder.

    Yes Bylar is a run-on sentence and a mixed metaphor as is all life everywhere. The grammar of truth is not what’s taught in your usual school.

    Some people on her adopted planet were dismayed at her intensity, but she knew something that Earthers did not, that a beloved planet can die, and all the sentience be irrevocably gone. She loved fancy, extravagant, spectacular Earth. She was homesick only for the fluidity, the spectrum of speeds, the reverent complexity of thought that was so easy and essential on Bylar. The laughter always in the background like living next to a river running over rocks. Splashing, thought did splash on Bylar.

    You could tap into the Knot and join the hymn and hum and chuckle and gossip of the communal interlaced sentience of the planet. Or you could take a spate of solitude. The communal had a telempathic intimacy. Because sensation was one whole of response to interaction, senses were not falsely separated as on Sol3. You tasted with your eyes, saw with your tongue. Alone or plugged in, sensation was an orchestral luxury. You were immersed in sensation. You surfed on a wave of sensation, then splashed in the froth of its breaking wave.

    The heartbeat of a stone is slow. The heartbeat of a bird is fast. The Savors, or what would be called humans on Sol3, were capable of the whole spectrum of identity and speeds. It was their job to savor and to hold holy all the minutes and minutia of their experience and keep it against the Long Dark.

    I believe I will find it or it will be found—the record, the preserved dream of the beloved lost planet, my Bylar, where most of all we laughed. My blood was born under another star. Coming from so far, the best I can tell you from my alien but sympathetic heart is “Wake up. Treasure it. This second and the next. This person and the next. You have been given a splendid planet. Tune your every molecule to appreciation, and wonder will accompany you. Oh do treasure your planet and its denizens. You can lose all of them, and that ache is a ghastly lesson, more horrible than I dare tell you. Against the vast sky of eternity, each moment of your life is a distinct star. Do your life honor. You are a miracle of sentience. Savor it.”

…<^>..

   I wrote this so long ago in my life. It was a shocking experience and reported as concretely as I am able. Perhaps it will give you a glimpse of why I’m so devoted to our darling Earth. I know starkly what’s at stake.

…<^>..

    For now, let’s call me an orphan brought up by druids. An hardest aspect of darling Earth Vuravura Jeegoo is the cripplingly strait grammar. Tho English is a miracle of funky pirated adaptability, a bastard, mongrel language of stupendous vigor . . . compared to Bylar’s hololanguages, it is pretty staid. I try to push the language envelope in quirk and quixot  without losing you, dear reader, in a reverent revelry. I implore you to read with your mouth as if out loud because all these pieces are songy and tasting the words keeps the melody at the best rhythm for grok.

    Also I’m trying progressively to unclench your more rational mind as we travel through these days. (If you have just arrived in Day 15, it will serve you to go back and begin at the Intro of Ask Dr. Druid so the vocabulary and the eccentricky but sustainable sensibility unfolds in the alchemic way it’s designed to.)

     It is my job to bring you safe back to your harbor after an adventure on the high galactic seas.

….<^>..

Notes

.. bylar means ‘to dance’ in Spanish;

…………<^>…………


Ask Dr. Druid, 66 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of  Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21; Day 22; Day 23; Day 24; Day 25; Day 26; Day 27; Day 28; Day 29;……..……<^>………..…..
If you know or are an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. askdrdruid@gmail.com. Please put ‘agent’ in the subject line.
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
…………….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2007 all rights reserved
copyright ask dr. druid 2007 all rights reserved
blog title image is a piece of andy goldsworthy
It’d be great if you sent pogblog’s link to your friends:
http://pogblog.blogharbor.com  

email: askdrdruid@gmail.com
.dedicated to bombadilobo.
<^>..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..
.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead ..  

Ask Dr. Druid ….. Day 15 ….. Re-view 2 . 3rd Eye

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Ask Dr. Druid . Day 15

3rd Eye. Re-view 2

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 This piece will read best for you
if you read it 
with your mouth as if out loud.
[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

 

Intro; Prologue; Day 1 overview, grok; Day 2, Treasure Hunt, Fat E, The Blue; Day 3, multiverse, eclectic, manypoem place, poetry eyes, nature, man, prejudice to the pretty; Day 4 Ing-ing verbing; Day 5 Inner Perfectionist to Fiji; Day 6 Naming Game; Day 7 Journaling; Day 8 Review 1;|||| Day 9 spelling backwards; Day 10 synchronicity; Day 11 synchronicity 2; Day 12 attention as a thing; Day 13 Levitation R Us;  Day 14 Amethyst Key dreams, Earth as the Home Dream; [Any of these chapters can be found in the Ask Dr. Druid category.]

 

    We've been practicing the scales of attentions and eclectics. We want to give you both techniques & tricks and the demonstrations of attentions being discovered. I plan to share my experiences of the blossoming of the eclectic for me so you can get a sense of how these extraordinary experiences mysteriously and magically appear within the ‘ordinary’ day. I honor folk who spend decades in a cave devoted to exquisite experience, but my job and the druid way of life is to cajole and exhort you to the constant extraordinary within the daily life. Not so many working stiffs get to do a week’s retreat at the sea by <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Carmel or to visit an ashram in India. The same rapids of glorious communion with the creation are available to the bagger at Safeway, however. Or to, as I might be, your window washer.

    I’ve put the quick list of our topics above so you can remind yourself of where we’ve been and re-up with the steps. Spelling backwards, for instance, is a visualization vitamin. You need to take it every day. At a few stoplights. In the supermarket line. All of these attitudes and beatitudes above should be mischievously practiced and noticed.

    I trust you are making daily notes and/or sketches in your journal or log. It is so essential to combine your hand and your head. Just meditating or thinking does not give you the two-sides-of-the-brain collaboration that making contemplation or memory or imagination work and play thru your hand does. (You might say that we’re tuning up your corpus callosum, that astonishing band of giga-concentrated nerve knowledge that lies between the two hemispheres of your brain.)

   When we eventually get your attentions open, deftly alert, and eclectic enough, you’ll be in the rarefied yet sustainable and delectable state known ever so mysteriously in the occult trades as having your ‘third eye’ open.

……..<^>…

images songlines prince of wales aboriginal art balgo;

….<^>… 


Ask Dr. Druid, 66 Days from Lead to Gold, Secrets of  Alchemy You Can Use, a druid shaman’s playbook .. Intro; Prologue; Day 1; Days 2 & 3; Day 4; Day 5; Day 6; Day 7; Day 8; Day 9; Day 10; Day 11; Day 12; Day 13; Day 14; day 15 Review 2; Day 16; Day 17; Day 18; Day 19; Day 20; Day 21; Day 22; Day 23; Day 24; Day 25; Day 26; Day 27; Day 28; Day 29;……..……<^>………..…..
If you know or are an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of pogblogian material, please let me know at .. askdrdruid@gmail.com. Please put ‘agent’ in the subject line.
………….<^>……………..
It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.
…………….<^>……………..
Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.
copyright pogblog 2007 all rights reserved
copyright ask dr. druid 2007 all rights reserved
blog title image is a piece of andy goldsworthy
It’d be great if you sent pogblog’s link to your friends:http://pogblog.blogharbor.com  
email: askdrdruid@gmail.com
.dedicated to bombadilobo.
<^>..
the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..
.. let’s spend the $820,000 per minute Military Budget on education instead ..
………….<^>…………….