Ask Dr. Druid . Day 17
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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 saw — in 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, danced — pranced. Sporadically, suddenly, frequently now, once a month or half-year, Itshehimwe would visit — Wake 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;
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