Journal of a Naked Poet XVI - My Nudity

My nudity is very precious to me, and I make no apologies for it. Still, some explanation may be in order.

I live in Florida, a state that has about thirty-four nudist communities and resorts. Sixteen or seventeen of them are in Pasco County, where we live. But we do not live in a clothing-optional community. We chose our house for several reasons, among them the chain-link fence for the dog, and the privacy screen of trees in back, for me.

I wish I could be naked all the time, but at present that is not in the cards. If I go shopping, I put some clothes on. If we have visitors who are not nudists, I wear clothes out of respect for their preferences. I try not to force my nudity on anyone. But if it's just Sandy, Betty, and me, I'm almost always naked.

"Why?" you may ask. I have a veritable basketful of reasons:

1) It's more comfortable.

2) I get a lot more sun, which I believe is very necessary to good health.

3) When it comes to laundry, it's much more efficient, and better for the environment.

4) Less air-conditioning is needed (also good for the environment).

5) I enjoy it, and feel more like myself.

6) Here's the biggie: Florida, at least this part of it, has very high humidity (usually more than 90%). This humidity, especially when accompanied by Florida's heat, causes me to get heat / humidity rashes in the groin areas. This is a problem that I first had in Barcelona, which is also quite humid. The best protection against this condition is to wear as little clothing as possible, especially in that area, in order to provide adequate ventilation to the body.

In addition to the above good and cogent reasons, I seem to intuit that my nudity is helpful psychically and mentally--in other words, I feel that it is protecting me on that level too, although I can't prove it. Maybe it just fosters whatever sanity I still have left. Or perhaps it just keeps intolerant and small-minded people away.

But for you, I would be happy to throw on a bathrobe or some Bermuda shorts. Naturally, they'll disappear the minute that you're gone.

Text and image © 2020 by Donald C. Traxler aka Donald Jacobson Traxler.

Journal of a Naked Poet XV - Unseen Worlds

I spend a not-insignificant portion of my time "between the worlds." This is not the same as "head in the clouds," or "dans la lune." Witch and Shaman friends will understand. Mystics and mushroom-eaters will understand. Lalla, another naked poet, surely understood.

I have had "psychic" experiences at least since the age of four or five. In 1991 Sandy and I revisited Europe. Among our stops was a place called Caunes Minervois, near Toulouse, where one of Sandy's friends had an inn. But Caunes is near the battlefields where the Pope's army slaughtered the Albigeois (Albigensians). One can still feel in the air the pain and grief of the local people. At least I could feel them, and I knew that I would never be able to live in such a place.

In Spain, in 1982, we visited all three of the ancient synagogues that were still standing. In two of them the vibes were clean, redolent of education. But in one of them the vibes were bad. I learned that it had been taken over by Christians after the expulsion of the Jews, and made into a convent. At least one of the nuns died from the austerities they practiced there.

In Rome, I could not approach the colosseum. I waited a block away for Sandy and our friend Nancy.

I had a premonition of the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. When I got on the commuter bus, at about 4:50, I thought, "Are we headed into a disaster?" We were. The earthquake struck at 5:04.

I have had precognitive dreams.

When my mother passed away, in 2006, I was the last person to talk to her. But I was living in Portland, OR, and had not been able to go to San Diego. Our conversation was telepathic. When she was gone, I knew it with certainty. I noted the time on the clock in the attic of our floating home, where I had just finished my morning yoga (I was meditating when she visited me), and then headed downstairs to take my shower, As I stepped into the bathroom, I said to Sandy, "you may be getting a call." The call came while I was in the shower. I later checked with a sister who had been at Mom's bedside. The time I had noted on the attic clock was correct.

I could go on and on, but what I want to say is this: I am not crazy, or some kind of freak. You could do it , too. It is our birthright.

(to be continued)

Text and image © 2020 by Donald C. Traxler aka Donald Jacobson Traxler.