Ask Dr. Druid . day 40 . Dream Toddlers

Posted on January 29, 2008 by wendy fleet

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 40

Dream Toddlers

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In 189,800 hours of our 569,400 hour life, one-third of our terrestrial span, we are dream toddlers. However august and accomplished we become in the solid, roughly sequential, daylight portion of our life adventure, we are untutored and gawky, if not helpless, in our dream experience. Dreaming happens to us. Our parents were ignorant of dream existence and its radical rules.

Perhaps it was thought enough for the homo sapiens to master the obviously demanding rules and consequences of K1 day life. However, the haphazard approach to dream experience has had dread consequences. The next stage of the evolving creature, homoa jubilant, will need to learn at least the rudiments of dream will, dream action, dream manners, and especially dream humor, or we will not be admitted to the Wider Galactic Community.

The Stiff Brains, as we are so derisively dubbed in the rollicking metalight-speed Galactic WarpNet, are seen as the El Stupidos on the fringes of the more faceted and agile Galactic Community. I have defended our provincial, noble savage strengths with what wit I can muster in their glittering and cavorting presences, but we are, frankly, a dull lot.

At the end of the nineteenth century, we were on the threshold of wondrous multi-mind discoveries when this very linear stolid Viennese dude the Galactics call Siggy Fraud inexplicably became the rage of the Pessies. The failed post-Romantic whiners are called Pessies on the WarpNet. Pessimism is seen as a deadly leprosy of consciousness by the lighter-than-light creatures only some of whom look remotely human.

Erif, the 6' 4″ chocolate brown felinoa sapiens sage told me that Siggy Fraud was undergoing a major soul overhaul between incarnations because his notions about dreams and the quicksilver consciousness therein were so appallingly dull and wrong. He had managed to pollute the inner atmosphere of several generations. When he had had his spherical sight restored, the pomposity and thinness, the small grey grimness of his Bombastic Version struck him vividly in the face, like a sudden cold wind before a storm. His Version had had so little of wonder and of deftness. He had had an alchemy, a grim one: he had turned gold into lead.

Erif told me that Siggy’s peripheral vision circuits had been damaged and that the most precious sense, his sense of humor, had been impaired. His grotesque misinterpretation of the dream worlds had turned people from their full heritage of consciousness as if they had been trapped in a goldfish bowl rather than set free on the deep, wide sea. He had not meant to do ill. He was afraid. He had little art in his heart, and the seduction of the multi-worlds seems to taunt our day world’s need for order and predictability. Art is the chalice which can hold the intoxicating elixir, but artists got separated out, were not integrated, and the society became unbalanced.

An Earth people called the Senoi deal with the night world just as if it were a different part of their whole life in the way that a play is different from a banquet. Not better, different. The sadness, the loss is in valuing one over the other. There are people who get mesmerized—dazzled—by the dream worlds or vision worlds and therefore handle the day life inadequately. A concern about the dream worlds is not silly or inconsiderable. They are extraordinarily vivid and powerful energy levels. No one would let a child drive a race car without learning to drive. I am extravagantly fascinated by my whole twenty-four hour life, but I recognize the real dangers involved with lonely exploration of alternate densities. A deliberate study of the complexities of reality is in the end faster, surer, and safer. The pyrotechnics of drugs are titillating, but they do not teach you how to act in alternate realities. Drugs drain the (nervous) system rather than replenishing it. When you act in the dream worlds, however timidly or tinily, you are recharged.

The reason we are kept from the wider Galaxy is because we blunder blindly around in the china shop busting up the crockery. We are energy boors.

We were sidetracked into the pathology of divers densities by Siggy’s overheated intellect. Leaving him on his siding to heal, we can begin to design the balanced humorous mind, the luminous and intriguing whole life, and one day we will be greeted into the glad Galaxy with cheers and hurrahs.

::-::- ::-::- ::-::- ::-::

I remain astonished that with all the excellent and fascinating education I was so lucky to be illuminated by, not one adult ever mentioned even one time that to be wholly and wholesomely human, I should become dream-able.

I am by no means a Senoi. I’m not as fluent in dream action as they are. As we ask our child who comes home from school, “How was your day at school, dear?” — every morning they ask their littlest child, “How was your night at school, dear?”

Imagine that we in the industrial West invented the radio which can tune to invisible and inaudible strands of energys and display then in a way we can hear. Similarly, the Senoi and many shamanic peoples have invented how to tune their own internal receivers without needing an external gizmo like a radio. What they experience is often a 3D or holoexperience. You yourself do it every night whether you remember it or not. They can just do it less haphazardly. So will you by day 66.

::-::- ::-::- ::-::- ::-::

Notes:

.. homo/homoa .. I coined ‘homoa’ to feel less hopelessly narrow. I once had this swell Swedish lecturer gent who was an expert on the Mayan Calendar seamlessly use “she” as the pronoun for his whole lecture. It was a viscerally remarkable event. I had no idea the subtle energy bombardment that the patriarchal biases of the language really invisibly impose upon us. Each time he said ‘she,’ I realized that subliminally I was visualizing a ‘she’ doing or thinking what ever went on in the sentence. This actually changes the voltage of your imagination.

.. Siggie Fraud is Sigmund Freud for those of you not so addicted to pithy puns as I.

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

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; Day 30; Day 31; Day 32; Day 33; Day 34; Day 35; Day 36; Day 37; Day 38; Day 39; Day 40;

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Ask Dr. Druid . day 39 . The Land of the Dead Is Lively

Posted on January 19, 2008 by wendy fleet

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 39

The Land of the Dead is Lively

This piece will read best for you

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[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

The first one who died, my father, I was numb. The second one who died, my first husband, I screamed. By the tenth big death before I was 29, I was pissed. Furious, not drunk.

This Heaven-and-Hell folderol is a misleading way to talk about the Land of the Dead because though the Heaven-mongering Christians, who began as a simple religion of the powerless, have had the power, the press, and the propaganda for a lot of centuries, the AfterLife Truth is much more complex, and, luckily, a ton more fun.

I didn’t think when I was a child feeding the shiny newborn black-and-white Holstein calves their buckets of faintly pink milk that I would grow up to become an expert in death. It just happened. There’s no degree you can get in this one. The Major Universities don’t have Death 101 on the curriculum. The Major Religions Lie because they got detached from Mystery. The Other Side, the non-carnate, the less dense — of which the AfterLife is but a facet — is often too raunchy, sly, anarchic, boisterous, and fragmented to be a useful example for a solid, sequential existence. Thus the preachers and teachers, seldom lit from within, hid the truth, abridged it, sanitized it, pietized it, forgot it.

When, to my shock, I met my disoriented father shortly after he’d died, his color was quite blue. He was swaddled in bandages and was being cared for by bustling midwife-like beings who were tending his unreconciled passage from the solid carnate world to the non-carnate realms. They were kind. He had died too young at fifty-two. The hospital had killed him with misdiagnosis. The doctors said Whoops, shrugged, looked abashed, and then down at their brilliantly-shined shoes. When I first met my father in OtherLand, of course I just thought I was crazy.

When I met my first husband, Michael, who had died too young at twenty-eight — his car slid off an icy Vermont road into a tree — when I met Michael in an other-density garret, cooking a hamburger, the fat sizzling loudly in the frying pan, I was just utterly glad to know that he hadn’t vaporized into some black hole of nothingness. The black hole of nothingness being the most cruelly unbearable. I still thought I was probably crazy.

Depending on who you are hearing this, you either think I’m still crazy or are holding your hand to your mouth grateful that it happened to someone else too or you’re so used to this inter-realm stuff that it’s not exactly ho-hum, not really old hat, but it isn’t molecularly shocking nor bone-marrow creepy, throat-clutchingly terrifying anymore either.

Father, husband, brother, stepbrother, stepfather, mother, mentor, headmistress, eighteen-year-old cat, all the eight grandparents of course. By now my horror has transmogrified to raw rage. Higher realms indeed. Our dear Earth realm is so high and glorious that non-carnates, responsible and derelict alike, shove and claw to get a ticket on this most intriguing of galactic roller coaster rides. I distinctly blame Religions for grabbing power by devaluing this solid terrestrial experience.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful for my non-carnate and semi-carnate experiences. Learning to fly, walking on water, floating through the ceiling. Giddy stuff. But I will not have us be a colony of heaven. We are the experts on relatively sequential time, on solid experience, on being able to actually eat a whole chocolate chip cookie, to drive where we’re going and not end up somewhere else.

Our beloved realm is a masterpiece of reality engineering — there is no higher place to be. Different, just different. I sometimes think that if I could get that single point across, I could be at peace. Of course that single point would change the world. We would know that every daily thing is holy, radiant. Awe and delight would be our steady state, daily little explosions of radiance. We could then greet heaven with the strength of our own earth beauty and stand in the galactic councils not as slaves or puppets or children, but as tellers of our own tales, proud and various.

I had never met my ex-husband's parents when they were alive. Mr. Martin was a high school principal in a medium-sized Iowa town. Mrs. Martin taught home economics and was a devout Christian. I was a vivid redheaded pagan. They would have disapproved of me mightily.

When I met Mr. Martin in OtherLand, however, he was driving too fast in a bright-yellow open touring car, had on a loud black-and-white-checked sports jacket, a jaunty hat with a sprightly red feather, and a tiger lounging in the back seat with whom I sat. We got along famously to my huge and relieved surprise.

Mrs. Martin when I met her was almost nun-like in her retreat and shyness of soul. I think Earth had been too rough and ready for her. But she loved her brilliant, vulnerable son, and could, freer of Earth's particular prejudices, honor that I loved him too.

These pow-wows with the dead are not frequent; we don't hang out. My dead, anyway, do not hover. I think it is wicked that the veil is so impenetrable. When I get the chance to rail at heaven's haughty hierarchy, I shall.

::-::-::-::-::-::-::

The fierce skills of deft and delighted attentions you’ve been honing and honeying will serve you exquisitely as you begin your forays into the DreamLands and ReverieLands.

Anciently we traveled between our beloved VuraEarthGoo and these other Realms, including the Land of Apples, as you might visit Paris, France or Machu Pikchu, high above the Urubamba Valley north of Cusco, Peru.

As we amble along, we’ll have some volcanic venting about the disturbance and wreckage wrought by Formal Religions and Psychology Stiffs upon the portals to the Land of Apples.

As weightlessness is ordinary in space travel, the laws of physics we’re used to when we travel by train, plane, or ship are different when we travel in DreamLands or New ReverieLand. The laws of physics are different, the ethics are different, the social structures are different. We’ll explore these differences.

::-::-::-::-::-::-::

Notes:

.. carnate .. in a body;

.. hamburger, other density garret .. (A garret is a kind of attic that someone lives in.) Hamburger was a kind of fond and absurd motif between my husband Michael and me. Just out of UVM and Mount Holyoke in 1966, Michael and I had gone to the NorthEast Kingdom in Vermont to teach in remote high schools in Hardwick and the tiny village of Greensboro, pop. 503. We felt it was a kind of domestic Peace Corps before there were formal programs for such things. Half of my seventh-grade English class was fanged. A class of little vampires. Apparently inbreeding leads to the elongation of the eye teeth just over the lower lip. No doubt the same phenomenon that occurred in the remote valleys of Transylvania.

We were poor. We ate hamburger in some form 6-7 nights a week. I would walk down the single snowy street to Ernie’s, the little grocery store which catered to the posh-ish influx of summer people and hung on in the winter. I would stand in front of the meat counter most every day and look as if I might choose something else. Polly, the meat lady, never rushed me though she knew I would say, “I think I’ll have half a pound of hamburger today.”

I had a booklet called 101 Ways to Cook Hamburger. In a spurt of invention, I even put some sliced banana pieces between two thin patties of hamburger and pinched the edges before I fried the burgers up. It’s not bad. So cooking hamburgers was kind of ‘our song’ you might say. A tender joke. A secret handshake.

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

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I’d be very grateful if you’d send Ask Dr. Druid's link to a friend:
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.. if you make $50,000 a year, it’s gone in 4 seconds in Iraq;

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Ask Dr. Druid . day 37 . holokus, hulakus

Posted on January 6, 2008 by wendy fleet

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 37

holokus, hulakus

This piece will read best for you

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[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

-:-:-:-:-:-

Cheney and diseased mind

Rhyme

In this terrible time.

Yet the butterfly’s

Stained glass wings

Remain

Sublime.

…:…:.

A grain of sand

Blooms

Into a pearl,

That world

Where we and dawn

Secretly conspire

To smile,

Transfixed

In that pearl light,

With one another.

Many the grains of sand,

Many the dawns,

Many the conspiracies of smiles.

–:.:—:.:–

Does the River Remember?

Does the River

Remember

The fish who silverly

Swim in it?

Does the air

Remember

The people, the tigers

Who wrathfully

Swim in it?

Are we zebra-striped,

Giraffe-splotched

Braille

To the air?

Does it read us

As we pass

Swarm slither gallop

Amble by?

Can you caress the air

Back

As it zephyrs?

-:-:-:-:-:-

Lead

Would prefer

To make moveable type

More than bullets.

I asked it.

Words

For prayers & dares,

To spell

The spell of love:

Te amo

Not te ammo

For gods’ sakes.

Poor lead Pb82 ..

Millions of words.

Millions of bullets.

Which wins?

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

Fortune?

Fortunate in friends?

I am friends with constellations,

Agog at that ceaseless sea

Of stars.

A charmed life?

I am charmed

By a dandelion puff.

Love?

Hither. Yon.

Piffle.

I’d rather remain

Amazed.

…:..:….:..

The Smaller Moons

Only the panthers and I

Were awake

When the smaller moons

Rose.

“Get an orphan

To sing the duets

With the smaller moons,”

Commanded Montezuma

The Wise

Before the bearded

Snakehearted ogres

Shattered our shores,

Our harmony, our hospitality,

Bloodmasked warriors

Sang with the full moon,

Imperious, glorious was she.

The smaller moons

The silver sliver

The quarter moon

Whisper dew of pearl

So kind so soft

A melody

The ice in your heart

Melts

And becomes the rain

Which falls

On flowers and fawns

Again

In the 3^rd hour

Before dawn

The orphan

And the smaller moons

Sing this song,

The duet the warriors cannot hear.

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

Hide

Plain sight

Is Druidry;

And patience

As far

As there are

Stars.

Our patient duty to beauty.

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

How?

How can we waste,

Lay waste

To eternity

With our murderous grimaces

Our grim murders

Faux ennobled

By the vainest rhetoric

Where mutilated children

Become disappeared

As collateral damage?

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

Mon flotsam,

You wash up

On my beach,

Driftwood,

Smoothed, silver,

Salty, gnarled.

The beach’s treasure

Along with the sanddollars.

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

Holoku, hulaku. Hulaku — little dances, gestures of admiration for the way words play, effervesce, coalesce. A formal haiku of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />5/7/5 syllables per line is a single drop of dew on a leaf. An holoku is less formal but no less earnest. It is not confined or refined by the number of syllables but by the dimensions of a notion, a small exploration.

In your log or journal let an image or a notion drift into your mind like an exquisite small cloud. Listen to its story and write down the words. You’ll learn unexpected qualities or narratives about the object or notion. Lead Pb82 enjoys being moveable type and is imprisoned and tortured to be bullets. It never had occurred to me to listen to lead. I had no preconceived notions about lead. Your mind gets this luminous quiet as you listen to the object or the notion fold itself like origami into its own shape which you describe and transcribe.

It helps to get over the stupid modern idea that ‘objects’ don’t talk. I grew up listening to trees as an only child in the country. It wasn’t til I went to school that I learned not to talk about talking to trees. I think all poets consciously or unconsciously know that everything has a story to tell. It all gossips and preens or keens.

One of my druid points is to remind you that we all have the right to the keen and reverent attention that may come naturally to some bards or be trained early in some lucky folk, but that every single person can learn the magic tricks of poetry and attention. You may not get what a friend of mine calls ‘recognized’ or lionized in the celebrity society, but you can get drunk on beauty and fascination. The poetry attention, distilled like honey in your heart, is a sweetness and intoxication that is the birthright of sentients.

I have never figured out how churches etc could con people into casting their hearts to some distant Heaven while right here we are in the middle of a K1 masterpiece sans pareil in the cosmos. Now, in other books to come we can talk about how we have truly distressed the social systems. But that which the painters paint as still lifes, what Van Gogh tore his ear off for, the huge sky Turner wept over in his landscapes, the poet’s ache for the single drop of dew on the leaf. That masterpiece is so present and abundant that you can be full and fierce always to face the fractal challenges of biped interactions. Yet the butterfly’s/Stained glass wings /Remain/Sublime. You can trust that with molecular totality.

….::…:..

Notes:

.. faux (foh) .. false, fake;

.. Basho is a classic haikuist. A lovely one is “Lightning — /Heron’s cry/Stabs the darkness.”

.. sans pareil (sahn par-eye) without parallel or without equal, French;

-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-::-

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

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.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.

.for bombadilobo & diablobo.

<^>..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

.. if you make $50,000 a year, it’s gone in 4 seconds in Iraq;

.. let’s spend most of the Military-Corporate Budget on education instead ..

………….<^>…………….

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 36 . Paris, France

Posted on January 2, 2008 by wendy fleet

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 36

<?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Paris, France

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[Ask Dr. Druid is designed to begin at the beginning. Click here.]

Druids have always believed in an absolute democracy of knowledge – or more important of knowing. (Not so much the stuff, but the process.) The treasure, the golden, the untarnishable joy is knowing and sharing it with abandon and glee, with reverence, reverie, and revelry.

I imagine it would be levitatingly fine to go to Paris, France. But not everyone gets to see the Seine. Yet they must not have lives of regret. The druid point is to be jolly and amazed wherever you are. Not some ‘positive thinking’ abstraction, but honed & honeyed perception. Besides, think of how well that’ll serve you if you get to Paris, France.

It is the eternal birthright of consciousness to bloom. A fine and dandy and handy curiosity. Rhapsodic outsight & insight, a woven song. Freedom of knowledge/knowing is the 1^st freedom or the zero freedom, the foundation and the vault, the out-of-which all incandescence.

I taught in Adult Education for twenty-five years and I saw people not value their band because they weren’t Mick Jagger. Not value their vacation because it was never Paris, France. Not value their painting because they didn’t make a living at it. How rotten is that? Where did we get so knee-jerk in welding money or fame and value?

When I started doing stained glass, I thought I would die with the beauty of the colors and the chickadee/small bird glee in making a box or mirror or clock where I had cut all the shimmering glass and laid all the solder. I learned to do both the lead and Tiffany styles. I learned it well enough to exhilaratedly teach it in Adult Education. Then I fell into the terrible trap of thinking that I had to validate my stained glass by selling it. I came to hate doing it. I had to make the same or similar items over and over for economies of time and scale. I never got to experiment with bizarre but instructive failures.

I met this guy who had made cool and eccentric bird houses. He sold a few now & again at a local flea market for grins but his mother talked him into trying to ‘Get Serious and organized and really sell a line of bird houses.’ It all but broke his heart. He had loved and crafted his unique bird houses and now the zigzagging originality, the quixotic fun had gone out of it. Think how Mick Jagger feels that all anyone really wants to hear is ‘Satisfaction.’ Nobody gives a damn about his new ballad, ‘Buried in Ostrich Feathers.’

You may get to go to Paris, France. You may get to be Mick Jagger. That’ll take care of itself. I’m interested in the hours when you aren’t in Paris, France and aren’t Mick Jagger. Druidry has to do with the kind of cooking chefs do for themselves and their friends at home. Expert but daily.

The Brits have this concept of the gifted amateur. Someone good enough to be a professional, but who does something else for the rent and pursues the craft or the game or the art for its own exact and quirky sake. Remember, someone is going to be fixing the car, washing the dishes in the restaurant, digging the ditches, washing the windows. All this hurrah about everybody following their bliss for money is blindered codswallop. Billions of people on this VuraEarthGoo have beastly or not so grand jobs. Those jobs exist. Those jobs are going to be done by some body. Those folks have the right to as much bliss as the next doodette or dood. Bliss what you follow. The art and the job for rent. Myself, I wash windows for the rent. It’s honest work. And proves my point. That we could share the grottier jobs around and still all get grokked out with mirthmost merriment.

…………<^>…………

Notes:

I haven't put my mind to the distribution scheme of the necessary work, but guess it'll be something like a fab Russian sci fi story I read once where every six months in the mail you got a note about your job for the next six months. (If you know the author of this story, I adore to find it out again. Pls leave in Comment.) Neurosurgeon three weeks a month and dishwasher at the Ritz for one week a month, or somesuch. I'm not wed to any scheme yet — just to the principle that all bipeds are actually created equal. What a novel idea to mean it.

I've long felt we should require all elected public officials to live on minimum wage and take public transportation for one week of every month, they're in office. See oh see how quickly minimum wage would Rise and how much oftener clean buses would show up.

.. VuraEarthGoo .. Vuravura, Earth, & Jeegoo are all names for our Home Planet.

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

You may comment anonymously.

…………….<^>……………..

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I’d be very grateful if you’d send pogblog’s link to a friend:
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email: askdrdruid@gmail.com

.. keep your heart bright. beauty is rising.

.for bombadilobo & diablobo.

<^>..

the education-obsessed world begins today with you ..

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

………….<^>…………….

Ask Dr. Druid

Druid thought; obsidian humor; radically sane politics;

Monthly Archives: January 2008

Ask Dr. Druid . day 40 . Dream Toddlers

Ask Dr. Druid . day 39 . The Land of the Dead Is Lively

Ask Dr. Druid . day 37 . holokus, hulakus

Ask Dr. Druid . Day 36 . Paris, France