The Taming of the Skeptic

The Taming of the Skeptic: A Divine Comedy of Sorted Starseed Blogs

by Channel, Teacher, Healer and Artist, Krista Raisa


Hastiness and superficiality are the psychic diseases of the twentieth century.” -Aleksandr Isayevich Solzhenitsyn
“The Earth has music for those who listen.” -W.Shakespeare


Hear ye, hear ye:

Rightful Worship and Noble Starseeds, thither is a skeptic in the fairest chamber or dunnest cubicle. Thy privy council wilt not be’est able to identify those folk by their swaggering hempen homespuns, loci of control, as intentions are crucibles.

As ’tis, the clos’d mind operates an unseen device. Heed my advice.

Asleep, seekers of self-imposed limitation gratify the physical mind. Nixing the psychic realm they enter linear Earth time receiving a most superficial temptation: mental self-stimulation.

Aye, in grape-juice couture, the temporary applause from such acts weighs heavily on this conscience while attempting to remain pure.

Mi perdonato, signore, a doubting Thomas once revealed: “I wasn’t satisfied until I got ten thousand views“, until then the knee would not bend into a kneel.

To uplift the chesty smugger offer your lordship. Bid them swim near, in faith, aboard ship.

Lend your ears to their anxious scrolls of proof stating, “following be safer than intuition, see my neck pulsating! Root with hogs before humans! Letters are un-necessarily liberating!”

Screen shot from “10 Things I Hate About You”

My dear friends, my punitive pagans and fustilarian faeries, make amends.

Earth is but a mysterious playground of oblivious fools and bootless beasts. Allow the paraphrasing and kumbaya feasts for they will be first in line at the last supper, smothering promises of apple butter! It keeps them off the old London streets, in tact with arms, applauding your generous feat.

An ill-tempered peacock mustn’t be pestered, nor should the most idle be sequestered.

By the rings of Saturn, witness the unraveling of a DNA pattern: “Alas! As synchronicity hath it, mine eyes seeth an extra-celestial, while bathing here in stale tears a sorrowful bestial. Angels at the eleven eleventh hour, clear me of all mortal sin, denounce my fame, fortune and white flour, founded on flibbering lips. Finally there is clarity in my thick head and quivering hips!

Butterfly displaying automimicry to look like an owl

Miracles happen, soul family true, even the most offended of nostrils may confide …in you.

Affectioned cut-pockets may toss away their capes. They’ll cremate their masks, costume-hair, and Dyonisus grapes!

Recall, that in silence integrity wins. As you knew long ago, goodness always comes from within.

So godspeed, optimists, I bid you adieu. Thank heavenly perspective for taming the starseeded shrews.