Ask Dr. Druid . Day 28

The K1 Project part 1

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   Gleek and Rat Tooth glanced at each other with that fierce wry which was the psychic wampum between them. Dr. Sal Iva was outlining the Milk Team’s upcoming billion-year K1 Project. From the galactikally gigantic sweet home-sea of hula-sloshing and mesmerizing holorealitys which formed and transformed with the lyric of thought, the Milk Team was damned determined to sculpt a K1 stable dimension. A place, the first place really, where things were not air in weather, did not mogrify at whim.

    That this notion strained galactik credulity, was scoffed at and reviled is part of the Chronicle. Sea people greeted the idea of a ‘solid,’ sturdy, stable. K or Kinesthetic with the derision that sleek and gliding sea-bound fish later greeted the clunky and dread-fomenting  idea of horribly and cruelly lurching around in thin air on dry land on dear Earth. How truly awful. What kind of loonland weirdoes would want to do that?

    After the initial busted-beehive furor, the Milk Team devised and revised evolutionarily in a backwater dimension field where nobody bothered them for the best part of a billion years.

    Long long before K1, the glory of 90% of the manypoem rhapsodic interwoven galaxys songs was the hulasweet plasticity of thought and stuff, its high K, its mogriffity. It was like weather and mood made manifest. It was a deep and effervescent glee to dwell in these blessed, dreamy galaxys of ultra-infra-radiant leisure and pleasure of being.

    In the Periodic Table of Psychik Elements, Ferrus had discovered Irony, that element which saved people from treacle sentiment and from despair. Like men had the enzyme testosterone, clowns or gleeks had irony. They could mock themselves which most people would just as soon stick an icepick in their left eyeball as do.

    In honor of her discovery of the psychik element Irony, Ferrus was vouchsafed the title of the K ranges Scale. The Ferrus K Scale indicated the intensity of persistence in matters of matter. It all matters. A slight from your beloved probably matters more than stubbing your toe on a stone. This chapter cannot detour to elucidate all the textures and meteorologies of the Ferrus K Xcale, but the curious can find more at Appendix I.

    Why did a gang of master metamorphs get so obsessed with the grail of K1? (Kzero is always talked about in hushed tones of ecstatic terror so we’ll leave that to Appendix I.) K1 is the remarkably stable dimension of pleasantly predictable and persistent kinesthetic. K11 is the remembered rainbow, a legerdelight, an illusion within an illusion. If you saw the rainbow with your beloved on a zephyred afternoon in the Month of Ripening Pumpkins when the air by the sea was nuage soft as two pelicans skimmed just above the wave tips, a K11 could matter a great deal to thou, but its K1 solidity or persistence is ispso facto evanescent.

    To weave temporal and locational stuffs together and not have them giddily, gleefully, glimmeringly mogrify was and remains a physio-psychic engineering task of astonishing ingenuities. Think of sculpting a statue of water – the damned stuff won’t stand still! Until you persuade it to, charm it to be ice, it’s a seemingly hopeless and wet task.

    Getting stuff to remain sturdy, still, and steady, under the onslaught of thought rage, blandishment, and bludgeoning that those accustomed to higher Ks would cast at the K1 creation was a fabulous feat. Stuff naturally wants to mogrify with the winds, the tides, of mood and desire.

    Entering one of their early experimental K1 spheres, Dr. Sal Iva, Gleek, Rat Tooth, and Ferrus all got the bends upon return to K5.5, the home dimension for most master metamorphs. They all almost died as the lethal champagne of so much less K boiled in their blood. Manipulating semi-permeable membranes is the name of the creation game. In the blackground, the black screen stuff gets real to one degree of K or another.

    Comfor Table, an apprentice metamorph, a fledgling gleek, saved them all by telling a flurry of holojokes, little acted hilarious silly scenes which made them laugh so hard that their bloodstorms became katotl tatotl again. (The knowledge & tranquility of the moon or lune or luna, the truth & tranquility of the moon,  a pearlescent talisman as soft as moonlight on your face in the face of grief or otherwise impenetrable darks; an elf promise, like Galadriels’s vial of elflight for Frodo, a light for when all other lights go out.) Katotl tatotl — there has been hell, there will doubtless be hell, even soon, but now is an oasis of such dear beauty, such sweetness of dates and of honey, that place in your heart, that Avalon, that island of apples. That healing, as deep as whale song. The pearl of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />midnight moonlight falls as soft as snow and melts nuagewarm onto your upraised face.

   What most of us don’t grok is that the Milk Team spent that billion years asking, coaxing, beguiling mogrificants, holohula stuff, to participate in the K1 experiment. Our familiar realm could dissolve back into the salty sultry sea of the wave realms of molasses-sweet becoming-into-becoming wherein most stuff dwells in spangled languorous harmonys. Yet for you here, the wall is willing to stay the wall, your weight-bearing feet to walk for year after year. Your reverence for K1 would be alert, keen, complete if you had a clue what ontological miracle of collaboration was being wrought and sculpted out of the vast AllWays so you could have this precious experience where you can itch and swallow, eat a kumquat, and view a kangaroo.

    Remember the Norse story of the beautiful and mild Baldar. He was so beloved by all of creation that it was a game to throw a rock at him, and in order to do Baldar no hurt, the rock would swerve and fall  harmlessly at his side. All things on Earth had been searched out one by one and told of Baldar’s sublime, sweet mildness and to do him no harm. Loki, however, the sometimes mischievous, sometimes wicked, the wild card, the coyote, hunted out the single thing on Earth which had not been whispered the sweet secret of the blessed Baldar. Hidden high in the topmost branches of the great oak, the mistletoe alone was ignorant, untold.

         At a festival when everyone was pelting stones and lances and every manner of missile at Baldar, and at whose goodness all things turned aside from harm, Loki secreted under his skyblue cloak a dart of  mistletoe. With the heat of all his envy, he flung the terrible dart into the left eye of Baldar, and the unknowing mistletoe slew our dear Baldar thus.

    In a happier tale, similarly, the Milk Team sought out each thing a world would want and cajoled it into, in interlaced enchantment, playing its kinesthetic part for the allotted and necessary time for the K1 world to work. Like a great holographic dynamic hieroglyphic song, the leaf notes, the cat’s whiskers’ notes, the guffaw notes, the strawberry notes – the cosmic symphony is composed for you if you would but hear.

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Notes

.. wampum .. wampum is the bead medium of currency, transactions of value for North Turtle Island originals. Turtle Island is what white, rabidly monotheist invaders call, imperially, America. Wampum has an aesthetic component that invader money abstracted out. Wry is a wampum, a stuff of value which the new physics must deny but which is as real to Gleek and Rat Tooth as a flash of lightning. Ah, again we see evidence of how we need both science and psyence.

.. Milk Team .. ‘Galaxy’ might be called ‘Place of Milk.’ Once after billions of years, TheAll began to include more splotches or patches, Sargasso Seas of K1, the Seers (those who could see) imagined the vast splashes of stars by the billions dreamily kaleidoscoping to look like spilled milk. So the inventor/explorer Team that crafted the grail of K1 stole the Milk moniker for grins.

.. mogrify .. transmogrify had notes of transmute, modify, transmigration. But ‘mogrify’ is the element where the droll and awe lie. The sluggy larva mogrifys into the impossible heartbreaking glory of the flutterby. You must perceive them as an unbroken sequence of mogriffity or becoming.

.. katotl tatotl .. “the knowledge & tranquility of the moon,” the truth & tranquility of the moon, The Amahuaca, Peru. p. 142 Shamanic Voices for the quoted phrase;

.. Ferrus .. ferrum is Latin for iron.

.. gleek .. a gleek is a jester.

.. manypoem .. multi-verse = many-poem.

.. treacle is saturatedly sweet; implies exceedingly sweet & sentimental; pron:tree-cull;

.. metamorphs .. cf metamorphosis, transformation masters.

.. zephyr .. soft mischievous breeze.

.. nuage is French for cloud; pron:new-ahhjuh.

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

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the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

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Ask Dr. Druid . Day 25

Vulture Culture

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Vulture Culture

    The Ords (who had shortened their name from Ordure) were odd ducks. Well, they weren’t really ducks, but they were damned peculiar. They worked for Lord Ord who was the Cosmic Keeper of the Odd, the Angels Too Fat To Dance on the Point of A Pin. His emblem was, proudly, a turkey buzzard in pink, rampant on a magenta field — the colors of entrails as the Lesser Ords scoffed cheerfully. Vultures liked guts and gluck; rot was ripe to them. Suppuration was succulent. The more stinking the ooze, the more toothsome.

    Lord Ord had begun liking what the other Planet Designers liked. Babbling brooks. Roses, orchids, panthers, and emeralds. Smashing glorious snazzy gorgeous show-stoppers. But to have all the living things work, there was an engineering Unavoidable. Living things were lively, but in some span they ran down, wore out, fatigued. Their élan waned. Death was invented; despised, but required.

    Lord Ord became, reluctantly at first then ravenously, rapturously interested in the Behind-the-Scenes necessities that support the splendid on-stage Show. When he had invented the vulture, he had felt a deep marrow-tingling pride. There are many quirks in the K1 solid Earth dimension. There were surprises such as the glamorous peacock’s awful cry. Lord Ord’s ugly vulture of ghastly mien could soar so sweetly that all gaped, envied. It was sufficient recompense.

    When the gods wished to soar, they became vultures, effortless, cloudstalkers. Hot sun on the top of the bold broad feathers, the rise of the ebullient air under your wide wings. If you wanted to do enormous, you did elephant, hippo, rhino, whale. If you wanted to soar, you did vulture.

    Some gods were too fastidious, too tepid of imagination to pay the gustatory price. Lord Ord’s sense of humor escaped many. Putting the galaxy’s most fabulous soaring with the galaxy’s most repulsive and rancid cuisine was a mobius twist trick that the prissier gods couldn’t follow.

    Lady Onyx, his brilliant, deft partner, had also become intrigued by the design of the Odd. Her tour de force had been spiders. The challenge had been to devise a vertigo-less creature whose webs were art and worked as well.

    Lady Onyx remembered fondly the morning when she and Lord Ord woke and she watched him gaze happily around the bustling planet which was getting quite habitable by now. He glanced up at the corner of their large sunny room and he was silent. He watched the patient tiny predator on its remarkable silvery web, the first spider seen by any other god than its designer. He shook his head in delight and applauded, “Wonderful, my dear Lady Onyx.” He leapt up to peek more closely at this new ingenious tiny toy.

    Lord Ord and Lady Onyx had collaborated on the crocodile. Lord Ord had devised the massive musculature, the crushing jaws, whittled the interlocking teeth. Lady Onyx had devised the turreted hide.

    The Lesser Ords were devoted to their Patrons. Once you got a feel for the Onyx and Ord touch, you could always pick out their practical, clever solutions. There was pride in dealing with ordure, preventing the spread of pestilence.

    Much later after the planet’s bio-layer matured, Lord Ord and Lady Onyx were saddened to hear that their favorite, the majestic vultures, were no longer fed the felled biped. Strange religions had proliferated. The quarrelsome biped was the only creature which hid its dead in boxes. Few remembered that the path of the vulture was the only way to completely free the soul from its planet-bound bonds.

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   Our American culture is hysterical about ‘prettiness.’ It glorifies young models who, tho vapid, are pretty and airbrushed. Norman Rockwell tended to go for the aww-puppy factor.

   We are obsessed with bathing and odorlessness. When I was a child, I lived in the country on a dairy farm. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Holsteins mainly, the black & white modern-art-on-the-hoof cows. I must have been about 8 years old when I went to spend a Wednesday Halloween night with a little blonde, blue-eyed china doll town kid, Peggy.

    I was an only child. I was a useful child. I fed the calves. I’d get up at 4:30am every morning and walk across the fields with Dad to feed the calves while he did the milking. Cows have to be milked twice a day 365 days a year. Cows don’t take weekends or vacations. I loved being useful.

   Dad had studied agronomy at Cornell and beginning in the late '40s was a visionary and pioneer in promoting commercial organic farming. (How I think of him every single time I buy organic milk in the supermarket now.) He was clearly an earth shaman tho he never would have known those words. He had his science training, but he spoke with the earth, the beloved and rare and fragile soil, and the roots and the nematodes. I watched him do it. Which may have been why I was always so comfortable talking to trees, listening to trees. (No, they don’t speak English. they speak Tree. One translates. I was bilingual. You swallow or taste and smell the meaning as much as hear it.)

    I usually wore my knee-high rubber boots and my bluejeans. (I may have been the first female on the planet to wear bluejeans in public. Gods know it was considered scandalous. When we went to town once a week for marketing, earnest mothers scurried their little useless china-doll daughters across the street to avoid the pollution of the uncustomary. Change was dangerous. And they were right about that. I was about 12 years ahead of my time and look what them '60s wrought.)

   Suitably clad in a stupid and useless little cotton dress, I arrived for my first and last overnight visit to town on Halloween eve for trick or treat. You can’t do trick or treat in the country. Places are too farflung down red dirt roads.

   Mother, tho a brilliant sculptor, was lousy at costumes. I was swathed in an old sheet with eye holes cut out, the annual ghost costume. I recall nothing of the trick-or-treating, but with icepick horror I recall getting ready for bed. Mrs. Wilson said, “Come along girls, it’s time for your bath.” This being Wednesday. I looked at her matter-of-factly and said, “Oh no thanks, I take my bath on Saturday.” Both mother and child recoiled. True. They didn’t just start or flinch. They recoiled. They did a reflex full-body lurch a step back recoil of disgust and dismay. I knew at once I’d breached some invisible law of nice people. Not unlike when I learned that you didn’t tell people about talking to trees. I don’t recall if I took the bath or was allowed to rest filthily on the gloriously pristine whitest sheets the colored maid had ironed.

   I do shower at least once a week still. I suspect most of my friends obsessively bathe daily, stripping their largest precious organ of essential oils so they have to scratch their poor dry skin in the winter.

   Farm kids learn early that there is a lot more muck and gluck – mucho mud, mucho manure – involved in getting them their milk and vegetables than they could bear to imagine.

    It is very hard to get unaddicted to the pretty. So try this week to make a special effort to greet spiders and other not pretty clans with interest and applause. No cringing, no recoiling.

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Notes

ordure .. the ten dollar word for dung; the amusement is in its formality;

elan .. verve, passion, spirit, enthusiasm; juice;

mobius .. a magic figure eight figure, interaction;  

mien .. face, bearing;

vapid .. devapor, as in flat stale wine;

obsess .. at root, besiege, from ob/against & sess/sit; also haunt;

colored maid .. in the horror still in 20th century USA, the Maryland town near where I grew up still in the early '50s had water fountains labelled Colored and White. Luckily I was born knowing this was sickening for soul, heart, and mind.

…!^!…

…………<^>…………

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 druid 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.

You may comment anonymously.

…………….<^>……………..

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

excerpt image guillaume dargaud

article title image mike holliet 1gorilla

I’d be very grateful if you’d send pogblog’s link to a friend:
http://pogblog.blogharbor.com  

email: askdrdruid@gmail.com

.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.

.for bombadilobo.

<^>..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

………….<^>…………….