#and his skull had far more eye cavities than a typical human skull

[oblivionscrolls]

With all this talk about the Necrom dlc and what Miraak night look like under the mask, I'm willing to bet he's got a bit of an Amygdala [bloodborne] situation under there.

As in, had more eyes than might be considered normal.

It's reasonable, given his patron Herma Mora. I know quite a few people jump to tentacles first, but the abundance of eyes are a far more prominent feature.

Take the mask off Miraak and you find at least half a dozen eyes of various sizes and possibly colours staring back at you

[sonofhistory]

CHAPTER ONE - CHAPTER TWO - CHAPTER THREE

Dedicated to @gettallmadge and gifted to @maryabolkonskaya

American History RPF 18th Century CE RPF

Nathan Hale (1755-1776)/Benjamin Tallmadge

Benjamin Tallmadge, Nathan Hale, Reverend Benjamin Tallmadge, Susannah Smith Tallmadge (1729-1768), William Tallmadge (1752-1776), Elizabeth Hale, Richard Hale, Samuel Hale, John Hale, Joseph Hale, Elizabeth Rose Taylor, Enoch Hale, Other Character Tags to Be Added

Lost Love, Family, Domestic Bliss, Memories, Separate Childhoods, Childhood, Growing Up, Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Religion, Ilness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Part of the Halemadge || Pythias & Damon series

Word Count Thus Far: 9,457 Chapter 3/16

___________________

June 6th, 1755

Coventry, Connecticut

----- I -----

         The earth appeared to be cloaked in an impenetrable blanket of sunlight; born with weakness to fall and strength to rise. As afternoon settled upon the Hale farm, Richard Hale wiped a bead of sweat that had trickled onto his brow. It furrowed as his feet crunched on the dirt path that spiraled into his home. Anxiety was churning like butter in his gut as he pressed his lips until a firm line, shielding his eyes from the streaming sunlight and observing his workmen. He snapped angrily at two of them who were caught in idle chatter with their gentle laughs echoing and resounding across the hills. He fought the urge to come to blows, battling with temptation enough not to head indoors for the sixth time this morning to check upon his wife.

         The summer heat was setting his temper farther on edge and he gritted his teeth, leaning against a fence post and inspecting the rolling ivy of the hills and how it all arose to shimmer in such a delicate emerald under the beautiful late morning breeze. He was almost lost in his own thoughts for a minute and forgot the new child on the way, teeth beginning to ease off the flesh of his lip where it was holding for dear life, searching for some type of consolation. Richard nearly bit his tongue when he heard the shuffling of feet scurrying down the creaking porch to the dirt path leading towards him. Tossed out of his trance the old maid placed a palm down on his shoulder and he spun around to greet her.

         There was a flinch of hope splintering the creases of his eyes. He already knew the child was born a month early.

         “It is a son.” He didn’t care for a section of time before the old nurse flattened her outfit, never releasing her gaze off of his. He was stuck not standing in reality as he blinked several times attempting to comprehend this information. “Mr. Hale, the child is premature.”

         Something shattered within him but he couldn’t exactly place where the cracks were located when the shards dug into his skin--there was a sharp ringing deep within his eardrums and he forgot the sweat that was building up behind his collar. His workers pausing, leaning against their plows and casting their glances in his direction, muttering discretely among one another. A sigh tumbled past his lips and he felt the indent seething from where he’d clamped down.

         Richard strutted, stalking through the mounds to the audience of curious workers that thronged into a culminating crowd. The maid remained stoic in the background, awaiting his return. For a moment they feared he may rage at their sloth but he remained calm with a face of iron, stepping before them. “The lord be praised for the mother and the child. Let him be a worth servant,” the formation of a cross drew breath as he motioned across his chest and smothered himself in the allure of the lambent rather than the perplexed visages of his workers. His scrutiny shot back, focusing, “do as you will with your time.”

         The nurse was still lingered when he came back from the fields and their feet flurried towards the home. Richard swallowed, he’d never lost a child before and he shook his head as if to dispel this thought forever from the cavity of his skull. He stepped close, grasping to open the door before the maid stepped forward, blocking him. “Are you, sir, to name the child a junior?”

         The question tangled him off guard and he grasped for those eager, nagging thoughts that were swimming within him. “He shall be called after that righteous and patriot man, my kinsman, Nathan, and I shall be well pleased if he have a high sense of duty.”

         There was a striking acceptance as she pulled herself aside for him to clear him a path into the struggling air of their crimson home. The sun escaped from his skin as strided inside, feeling relief despite the circumstances. He knew he may burn, but he inched himself closer to the room.

----- II -----

         Premature he was. A bald blossom who struggled for breath--for life--, wind escaping his feeble lungs with great effort. Richard submerged himself within the room and he felt out of place among such misery as one who bursts into laughter at a funeral. Elizabeth seemed tired, exhausted, not paying the slightest stretch of attention when the door slid open across the floor. The child was not nestled someplace safe within her arms, resting he was propped on his back against a feather pillow. Eyes only sooty slivers, shut to the light seeping in through the window. He scooped the child gently into his hands, he was hardly larger than his wrist with a tiny, soft and delicate skull. A little noise left his chest when the body position shifted. So beautifully peaceful in a special way.

         An emotion overtook him. He was fragile, he was modest and there wasn’t a thing he would change. “Elizabeth?”, a humble voice came forth, and he’d never felt smaller in his existence. Everything was pulsating around him, heart sweltering through cracking ribs. She did not budge from where she lay, vision finding the clouds a sense of more heaven than anything she’d created. “Wouldn’t you like to hold, Nathan?”, he asked, gulping and he was reluctant to give him up.

         “Nathan?”, she turned her neck across the pillow at this, hair covering an eye, her pale hands with bulging veins were too depleted of energy to remove. Her voice stole every ounce of strength from her dripping vocal chords.

         He managed a grin, rocking Nathan lightly in his arms, a nod nestled his chin.

         She sighed, “I am exhausted.”

         “Rest, Elizabeth, you must.”

         Her brows furrowed. “Richard, no”, he tilted his survey, dabbing the sweat from her forehead in bewilderment, “It’s something deeper, inherently present, it’s on the fibers of my skin...” her eyelids slinked downwards and she forced them open with difficulty, “...tendons, my eyes.”

         Still, her husband was perturbed, lacking any concept, pushing himself closer and farther onto the mattress till he grew to her side and her eyes seemed to avoid the infant he held in his arms.

         “Give all my hours of sleep to my child so that he may carry my strength, I am too worn by noise and silence… light and dark… hope and despair.”

         It was the sound of her voice that traveled into his blood like a thorn, vanishing directly into him to the core of who he always was. Breathing each other's dreams like air. Her eyes shut, face drifting into the pillow and he truly accepted the methods of her tongue, digesting her words. She seemed worn by the world, condensed into nothing that sleep could save.

----- III -----

         It would be two weeks before she grew strength enough to rise her head. Three before she could hold the child who’d swiped from her cavern such eager desire enough. And in those weeks there was a fear as you’d naught feel no other; a concern every moment would be Nathan’s last and the wife under his vows would struggle for air in vain. Grief was digging graves in his heart where tombstones were commencing to rise from the parting grass. She was porcelain, the skin of her wrist a touch of ivory, the veins underneath little paths to unknown sea coves left undiscovered. Her eyelids were a shade of gray, faded from the earth's misadventures and all living life, he could not reach her where she was inconsolable. It cloaked him, hovering like a shadow above his humanity. She’ll survive in his heart where she already rested.

________________________

June 29th, 1755

Coventry, Connecticut

----- IV -----

         Elizabeth held her son for the first time and love began, a tinge, a dash, consuming her; it entangles the body until she was devoured with this infatuation. She already had a flock of children when this one arrived, Samuel and John were already becoming scholars, respectively eight and seven years old by the time their brother came to be. They were young and Elizabeth rarely saw them before dinner, she’d scold them for the mud splattered on their ankles and the noise their shoes made when drenched. Joseph and Liza, five and four, did not quite understand they were not solely entitled to their mother’s affections any longer, the old maid Rachel wrangled them, they were both loud, pranksters those two and she couldn’t help a laugh at the image of her children and the mess they made attempting to shove unfinished dinner into their pockets. Then, there was Enoch; quiet with every hint of kindness and good in the world, brimming with intellect even nearing two, he was shy and motioned with pointed fingers to items he requested. She recognized that Enoch was the sole child who simply wished to entertain her in every way possible, catching her attention for her benefit and not his.

         The honeymoon phase settled and it was a relief for time to herself as her husband whisked Nathan away. She thought, perhaps, it would lessen the attraction. The less attached she became the easier it would be to let go. Nathan was not a strong child, lungs still weak and eyes only slits that allowed only a glance into a brilliant hidden spectacles lying below. He had not even vigor enough to cry, mouth bobbing open until she picked him up, stuffing him to her breast and the struggle parted. It was opposite, with every attempt not to grow adoration for his uncertain and ailing form she grew farther into cherishment for his refinement and slick scalp. She revered him as a month earlier she was able to slip from bed.

         There was a hand underneath her arm, propping her up, “There you go…”, it was an affable and present voice with every touch of sensibility. Her husband clutched her, cupping a palm to her slender waist.

         She should be grateful, she thought, but the careful tiptoeing around her frame was starting to entrench her with a growing build of irritation. “I’m not a child”, she murmured, releasing off his shoulder believing she’d done this so many times before. Richard tried to stop her, she dismissed him before taking a step and leading herself to the window she had not seen out of for so long a time by herself. The day was faint, thick charcoal clouds hung low in the sky though the heat was ever present like a suffocating fog. Her legs gave way as she grasped for a small  corner of the wall, tearing herself upwards without health to do so. The rolling hills before her home disappeared from grasp, head sinking from the window pane and she expected to collide to the floorboards, unable to catch herself.

         Two arms tugged her upright just as her skull neared contact with the flooring. “Elizabeth”, Richard cried, lifting her into his arms and leading her back to the bed where she collapsed. Hot tears began to fill her eyes, digging her nails into her hair and tilting her head forward. Would I ever become well again? This terror trickled into a wave up her spine and made her shoulders shudder in panic as ice gripped her heart in the most painful places, the bones of it all. She recollected everything that had brought her here and fought temptation to blame that… child. “Elizabeth?”

         His soothing and coaxing vocals caused her to tip her head up to meet his gaze. There was sympathy there as if only pain defined her. “I wish just to see the earth,” she was desperate, sick of being confined to a bed and it was starting to be the only thing she knew, steadily becoming crazy upon the very idea of it.

         Her husband did not coddle her as one would a child. He reached an arm down, transferring strength enough for her to stand to the elements, “Hold me now and you can walk across the years.”

         The next day he shuffled the bed to brim the window where she could follow the setting sun as it flashed across the bed with colors only matched in a piece of artistry.

----- IV -----

         She transferred her hurricanes into his heart, his soul was a starlit sea, giving her mind to him as meteors. Everyone will wish one day to learn the names of his tides, there is nothing but nature echoing from within. He was lightning bolt, biting back on thunder. She gave him the world to carry within and his life would be too short for loathing, she figured, the storms beneath his skin.

______________________

August 13th, 1755

Coventry, Connecticut

----- V -----

         Nathan was able to widen his eyes and reach for her hand when he was nearing two months old. By then, power pulsated from her muscles and she regained a hold across her household. Rachel did ask occasionally if she would like to rest, and she’d reach aged hands to grab the baby in her arms but she hesitated, demurring away from this. A part of her worried if she let him go she would truly do as what was expected. Enoch clung to her leg and could not be beckoned from his mother’s side, slipping behind her and peaking a head out from behind her as if she was a shield. She ran a hand over the top of his copper locks and brushing the bangs out of his eyes.

         Nathan appeared to be getting better, as it appeared, and Elizabeth did not have to bite on fear every moment she heard a cough resound from his tiny mouth. He cried when anyone else attempted to hold him, let out a piercing shriek that she wanted to guard her ears from. Richard was a little dismayed at this but quickly settled on sight instead. Her child's were like powdered corn flower made from different fabric of the skies. There was an ache for freedom that twinkled there and he enjoyed times where he was nestled in his mother’s lap.

         And this perfect little heaven did not last, it seems. Nathan ailed, his tiny form trembling underneath the sheets of his cradle with flushed cheeks and a horrifying sound blaring from his lungs that brought tears of fear to her eyes. She wondered if the child would ever survive and thought every time she saw a sunset it made be his last. More often it was the revelation that she’d held this tiny being within her for eight months, felt him growing every day and experienced all of his movements. He was a pretty child, glowing with youth, flowed across his features. Elizabeth struggled through the things she did not comprehend, everything larger than herself and this life.

____________________

October 21st, 1755

Coventry, Connecticut

----- VI -----

         Her favorite thing was when for a short eternity, Nathan’s lungs cleared and breathing was not a trivial thing any longer. She enjoyed the days where she could rock him in her lap on the porch, watching her husband, bent in the sweltering heat against a never ending summer. Occasionally he’ll catch her gaze and lower the rim of his hat to her, she giggled, grasping Nathan’s hand and waving it back mockingly. He was a happy child, she feared too much allowing him to reside in his own room with Enoch, he stayed in her bed and she watched his nose twitch as he slept.

         Samuel’s birthday arrived in October and Nathan seemed almost glad to draw the attention off of himself for a little while. That evening she allowed the now nine year old to stay out past dark though she worried as she watched him in the yard and bounced her newest edition around her chest. A chill from oncoming autumn whistled the tree branched until they scraped against the windows and set the mood. She tucked Samuel into bed in the room he shared with John and Enoch after their evening prayers. Enoch was already asleep, drifting into his pillow but Samuel sat up in bed blinking up at her with the largest doe eyes.

         “Could you tell me one of your stories, Mama?”, he asked and his voice was convincing as if trying to draw her in in some sort of manipulative way.

         Elizabeth sighed, flashing an off putting smile to set a tone and seating herself at the edge of their bed, pulling the blanket closer to their chins. It did not take much convincing for her to speak, she enjoyed these times where she could foster her own creativity.

         “Have you heard of children’s hour?”

----- VII -----

         Long ago she lost that fear of being wrong, and perhaps it was why she lived a creative life. Words loved to swarm within her like a lyrical sea where she drowned in aspirations. When her boys were asleep she peered into the bedroom of Liza and headed back to her bed, Nathan was already asleep in her arms where she nestled him into the pillows and he was as a light as a feather drifting in a pocket of air. Richard came in soon after, lingering in the doorstop where she met his eyes before he tumbled into bed like aching bricks. She traced lines across his chest and assured him closer. This was when they drank in silence in the drifting night. Their love was soft and silky lavender that flooded her senses. It was delicate, it was comforting with every breath of intention, twisting with devotion. His fingers looped through her hair as they fell asleep.

_____________________

November 10th, 1755

Coventry, Connecticut

----- VIII -----

         Her warm breath now hung low in the air with the oncoming and cryptid winter crossing swords with her hope of an extended summer. The chill of early November cut to her center and she bundled Nathan up warmer as they walked their grounds. Usually Enoch tagged along behind, running after on shaky legs and tugging on the end of her petticoat to keep in time. Though it was rare, she did enjoy those days when she was not alone with a still growing infant and she led an army. Liza usually requested her hand and Joseph enjoyed kicking rocks at her. She was tough, she never cried, lurching around and firing straight back. Children will be children. Enoch blinked a lot, she recalled taking in lather but she knew the hidden intellect underneath. His eyes were attempting to comprehend as much as he could.

         Life couldn’t be better, this she truly believed without hint of sarcasm. Nathan’s days of illness had passed and he breathed with ease. A flock of silvery blonde hair was beginning to grow on his cranium, it looked so much like gold but she knew how rich she was regardless of fortune. Richard joined occasionally on these walks when work did not persist, looping her around the arm, places where the leafless branches hid the greatest beauty underneath all of the colors. Maybe it was a metaphor, some hid the greatest beauties underneath as butterflies cannot see the beauty of their own wings.

[jpanneck-blog]

It is probably safe to say that many of you reading this little piece can affirm your anxiety about a visit to ye olde dentist, contingent upon the type and intensity of the procedure. Root canals? Bridgework? Wisdom tooth extraction? Yes, these are a far cry from routine cleanings, although if you are overcome by an overly active nervous system wrung in by episodes of panicky, sweaty nervous tics even with the suggestion of a routine visit, let alone a deep cleaning, then like myself, you request to be numbed out from the immanent terror that will pervade your every cell.

Some time ago, I scheduled a series of 4 deep cleanings. These are not your daddy’s cleanings, but rather the deepest you can go—instruments that make noises similar to the one heard at a construction site. However, the cleanings were even deeper than I could ever imagine, going beyond superficial cleaning to a light cleaning of my soul, in some regard, as I will soon explain. Of course, I had neglected the less pervasive routine cleanings for some time, given my anxiety over going to the dentist, thus, my punishment for such a forbearance of dental hygiene maintenance rendered me culpable and thus requiring more attention from these masked men and women in white. One day I hope to take heed to the Universal Dental Law of the inverse relationship between frequency of visits and intensity of service provided.

Little did I know that one could partake of the consciousness-altering nitrous oxide for a mere cleaning. Only when I began to sweat at my checkup at the mention of a “serious, deep cleaning” did my hygienist give me the good news—that my body would be sitting in the chair, but my mind in fact would be migrating elsewhere. Perhaps somewhere near where my occasional ayahuasca sessions have taken me—to that nebulous Bardo that rests outside this reality-bubble, especially the reality involving hygienists in medical garb operating their intimidating dental weaponry. Yes, I could pop open the Tupperware lid like that curious old Chaldean astronomer did on the famous Flammarion woodcut. I could be as William James did once when he took in that not-so-stale air and saw the White Crow that is the inner-potential of the human race.

My only memory of the effects of nitrous oxide is fuzzy at best—a brief and capricious little college detour (a la whippets) that did nothing more than make me sound like Emilio Estevez on peyote in Young Guns as I tentatively uttered, “Did you know we’re in the spirit world?” It was a pure, unadulterated giggle-fest and nothing more. No discernment or journaling from my trip to the “Other Side.” Of course, this was far before I took serious interest in the study of altered states of consciousness (ASC) as a tool for personal and spiritual development.

Nine years ago, I began a doctoral dissertation on the use of ayahuasca in the context of a religious setting as a method of developing more effective coping strategies for daily and life stressors. A year prior to that, I had witnessed my first ayahuasca session with the Santo Daime Church, a syncretic religious organization that calls upon ayahuasca (Daime) as its sacrament. Since then, I have been attending at least once every couple of months. Those sessions opened the door to a realm of spiritual and psychedelic possibility, invoking a far greater appreciation for all substances psychedelic (or entheogenic if you wish). Now even the occasional marijuana constitutional is much like a neuro-enrichment tool that allows me to break down barriers, make connections, and even discover mini-breakthroughs in my array of psychedelic-related projects.

So, I made the appointment and for the first time was for the most part looking forward to my dental treatment—a remarkable first! Interestingly enough, when I got to the appointment I began to have anxiety about the very thing that was supposed to alleviate my anxiety. A testament to the fact that I am a perfect candidate for nitrous oxide for even what may seem as the most mundane and least threatening of procedures.

And then…..it happened. The Nitrous Oxide worked. It was similar to being stoned ala a smoke session with a superior marijuana strain—but in the middle of the day in a dental office, which completely enhances the experience. There is an added intensity to being stoned in an orthodox setting (albeit, in an unorthodox fashion). That is, instead of smoking pot sitting around a fire, or hanging out with friends on a Friday evening, etc., the contrast of unorthodox ritual (unless you’re a pothead) with orthodox setting (usually involving strangers during the day in public) tends to greatly alter the experience. Although with nitrous, there is an additional euphoria, or giggle factor—less of the paranoia that may often be associated with marijuana.

So, there I was—stoned to the bejesus on nitrous and apparently someone was tooling around in my mouth. Rather than this operation becoming the focus of my experience, it was somewhat ancillary, although it did off-set some unique visionary motifs and sensations. For example, in my years of accumulated ayahuasca sessions, I have come to experience recurring spiritual visions, sensations, and what many would call “astral beings.” Whether or not these are actual beings is another topic for another blog. However, what I did see was so strikingly similar to my ayahuasca visions, that I can conclude it was a different key that opened up the same doorway to that mysterious “other side” of visionary and experiential phenomena.

I saw the ever-present “Buddha’s Eyes” with a vague “Tiger-striped” outline, which engendered the same “I’m a-being-from-another-dimension-over-watching-you-for-some-cosmic-reason” sensation. Additionally, as seen in several of my ayahuasca sessions, there was also the faint presence of a trickster entity revealing these rolls of complex symbol-laden wall paper as if he possessed at his disposal far more knowledge and intelligence than I could ever begin to comprehend. Although, it was typical for me to see the trickster only in the beginning, as if he were testing my meddle, revealing his visual tricks as if it were merely fodder for the purposes of some sort of decorative, theatrical gesture—an initial stage in the journey of the Hero. Perhaps it was a similar dimension, yet the beginning of the course for this particular….entheogen? After all, it did induce very similar spiritual-invoking sensations.

When I did come to focus on the procedure being done on my teeth, this also generated a rather unique experience. Rather than feeling accosted by this dental tech, I felt as though she were some angelic being making love to my soul—those gentle, delicate scrapes on my chin with her prophylactic-clad hand felt like love and connection at the time, rather than torture.  I did experience a little bit of pain, which was related to the drill-bit entering a cavity in one of my molars, reverberating throughout my skull and cascading into strange, psychedelic vignettes. But I was safe, for my dental tech had become my shaman—my angelic guide, cleaning out the old crusty detritus, just as the shaman clears out the psychic detritus of his inebriated and distressed client.

Fast forward to just over 4 years. Although I had a cleaning or two in between the aforementioned session and this one, this particular session was notable. I had set up another 4-quadrant deep cleaning series, and the first one—just 3 weeks ago—was not remotely memorable, at least in a positive sense. I had a different hygienist—not my usual dental shaman with the soft, but calculating touch. This DH seemed to lack the same level of confidence, and she could not quite get the nitrous—my medicine—right, and that was everything! Imagine the shaman not being able to deliver the goods, whether it was an ineffective dose, or administered improperly (“okay, try pouring the shot over your eye and see what happens….”). This throws the whole system off. We tried different apparatus styles and arrangements, and finally settling on one. Ineffective = not a pleasant situation. I didn’t want to make this about dental work. It was more than that. Good dental hygiene is a positive benefit of this session, or should be, but getting the inside of my mouth drilled and scraped should not be a focal point—it should be merely a radio playing in the background.

That was 3 weeks ago. On this particular day, I was introduced to new blood. A [youngish] middle-aged man of African descent with a thick accent and foreign name—a name that was suggestive of a “sleeper” shaman, a warm connector, and a gentle steward of transitions—from the daily grind to the twilight sublime. He turned out to be what I thought of as the Charlie Parker of dental shamanism—the Yardbird of the dental theater. He had a virtuosic technique, his own advanced harmonies, and was at once—clean, penetrating, sweet, and somber, and played my teeth at a rapid bebop clip. He took heed of my medicine (NO)—making sure it was in working order this time, and went right to penetrating jabs of gum-numbing. I asked if I could record myself (for the site), and he casually declined due to potential legal recourse and restrictions. I threw in my ear buds, connected to the wi-fi, and found a random House Trance mix on YouTube—my shamanic shuffle.

After about 20 minutes of desperately grasping my stress ball, the glass insert of the blue sky and clouds on the ceiling became my portal to the Bardo, and again, the drilling and scraping (his equivalent of a shamanic saplado), became an event that was simply occurring to a body that I inhabit most of the time. Although this session did not seem as intense as the one that occurred years ago, I must say that it is beyond refreshing to be at this level of “high” in the middle of the afternoon during a weekday. I was flooded with ideas—for writing, for my business (Bamboom), for performances, and talks. I tend to call the level of thinking that inhabits me “psychedelic cognition,” (PC) in which traditional, linear barriers are dissolved and my cognition and visionary states take on a multi-dimensional, holographic quality.

I sat there thinking—aside from “if William James was here, he’d be proud”—“How am I going to remember all of this stuff? I can’t necessarily write it down on my little notepad.” I then utilized the power of PC and conceptualized a vast hyper-dimensional cube (HDC) in which each thought/idea was represented by potent, numinous constructs (images or symbols), or what I sometimes call concrescences, and these images were “nodal points” on the corners of said HDC. I then attempted to correlate each construct with one another to in turn form a gestalt—a sort of holographic archetypal cube (HAC). I realize I’m getting heavy with the acronyms here, but this last one—HAC—I must admit, is a particularly good one since it is in fact a “hack,” and I seem to have immersed myself (like the rest of the culture increasingly) in the world of hacking (think bio-hacking, life-hacking, growth-hacking, etc.). In short, I left with a smile worthy of revealing given the fresh, new sheen on my teeth, but most importantly, I got to hop aboard the train to a hyperdimensional world with the Shamanic Dental Yardbird as the chief engineer of the Bardo Express.

Happy dental cleanings everyone!

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Justin “Dr. J” Panneck

Dental Shamanism: Nitrous Oxide & Altered States It is probably safe to say that many of you reading this little piece can affirm your anxiety about a visit to ye olde dentist, contingent upon the type and intensity of the procedure.