Mille-feuille or Napoleon?

“Overhead he heard the cry of what might have been a melodious owl, but it wasn’t a melodious owl. It was a flying saucer from Tralfamadore, navigating in both space and time, therefore seeming to Billy Pilgrim to have come from nowhere all at once…” Pg. 75, Kurt Vonnegut / Slaughter’ House-Five

As Billy Pilgrim I feel “unstuck in time.” Isolation is snuggling at home with my memories. It is the special moments of time when I do go out that I go back in time for memories. Such as the Napoleon pastry.

On Dumetz Road and Topanga Canyon Blvd. in the San Fernando Valley once was a small-town market. Now a Mermaid fucking coffee hole. Gary’s market had about all the produce a small community needed. When I was a kid, we walked there to fill our pillowcases up with penny candies. That was for sleep overs with my girlfriends on Friday nights before Saturday morning scary movie marathons.  

At the age of 15, I remember seeing my reflection on the bakery deli window. My eyes were red, and the echo of laughter filled the market with the echo of youths, like when we use to fly kites. We were not flying kites anymore. Then we sat outside the storefront on the sidewalk eating our Napoleon. Manna per chance?

What I love about the book The Children’s Crusade or Slaughterhouse-Five is something amazingly simple. Yes, fast flying UFOs. I have had my experiences with them and this novel by Kurt Vonnegut helped me to place my memories in a creative place. The book describes many wonderful elements of so many mysteries of life, death, and war.

Light beaming down from the sky and strange, maybe, Tralfamadorian symbols being downloaded into my brain.  I wondered is this an embellished fictional novel or what?

Seems like every block in West Hills, Woodland Hills, Calabasas, and the Santa Monica Mountains holds a memory waiting to unfold.

“It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string., and that once a moment is gone is it gone forever. “Pg. 27 Kurt Vonnegut / Slaughter’ House-Five



Praying Mantis. A seasonal relationship

illuminated picture of the exoskeleton.. notice the eyes.

As a child I discovered that nature was my ally. Nature is mysterious, receptive, and bold enough to answer my innocent questions. The Praying Mantis is part of this story. I have learned about life, death, and rebirth from the Praying Mantis. A seasonal relationship. Big golden green mamas have come to visit me, after laying their egg sacks, before they die. Males usually live longer lives. Not all of them have their heads bit off.  Then there are the exoskeletons that the Praying Mantis leaves behind many times as they go through their transmutation. If one is kind enough, they leave one upon my path. I then put it upon my hearth. I also take an illuminated picture of the exoskeleton. I have many. It tells me that change is on the way.  On this full moon in Aquarius it could mean an early Autumn is approaching. This is how I celebrate my blessed trinity of the Praying Mantis. As Uranus is, so is this lovely creature…. simply brilliant.  Always with antennae straight up and with an astounding frequency if you take the time to hear it.


Shadow Unity

My simple glance at America … a motif poem about human vulnerability!

ICU intensive. 4 patients sick with COVID19.

All on ventilators.

The respiratory team monitors the machines as the doctors do online visits.

Nurses attend to bodily functions as CNAs change diapers and turn patients.

Janitors and the full team wear special gear sterilizing everything. The CNAs are watching for bed sores and making sure patients are comfortable and clean.

We have a black woman who is a strong supporter and protested on the streets for Black Lives Matter. Jane is 34 a single mother with 3 children.

Next to her is Daniel. He is a southern Baptist who was attending services when his community came down with COVID19. Many are fine and only three died. He misses his grandchildren.

Tom is a single young man in his 30s and is a professional federal agent who contracted the virus at a community protest. He was called in by an underground community alert squad who asked for protection. He was only there to monitor the situation. Their city was inundated by people hanging out all hours. Graffiti all over and businesses are closed due to protests, looters, and the virus. The local business community and residents want the protesters to go home.

Dan is also extremely sick he is one of the unidentifiable vigilantes. Local small businesses raised funds to have these military people around to protect their businesses and communities. He was born in India and his family lives locally. They are also fearful and want their communities back. The protesters and media have labeled them fascists.

Meanwhile alleys are filled with human waste and trash from endless nights where people ignore curfew.

The news is showing statistics as we view a monitor as the COVID19 rates are increasing day by day.

A child of 12 views this same video with her father as they are sheltering safe at home. He lost his job as a chef at a local restaurant.

Together they both try and understand why the virus is spreading as the doctors’ state clearly.

 “Don’t hang out in groups or clusters of people, if you must go out wear a mask. Don’t pull it down to scream.”

The 12-year-old thought that was funny but was told by her parents that she will not be going to school this semester. She wants to go swimming at the local beach because she sees so many there on the TV monitor. Her mother says,

” lets run through the sprinklers in our backyard where we are safe.”

The 12 year old is learning about responsibility and caring for others. Her mother is a journalist and works online.

Her parents are struggling as many are, yet they are doing their part not to spread the virus.

They wear masks and practice social distancing! They will not be given their tax break for having a K-12 school age child this year because they refuse to let their child go to school.

A tent is arched under a freeway. A homeless man watches as protesters take over his town.  He does not care what their political persuasion is.

Even he wonders about the situation. No one is leaving coins in his cup. He wears a mask and practices social distancing. As he always has. He is hungry.


Ride On

To the 50 million women who are now moving from chrysalis to butterfly

To our blessed Thyroid Gland, body, and soul.

Denied and repressed feelings remain an albatross around your neck until they are given voice and forgiven.

My voice is the vibrational residence of my soul and I will not deny it. That is true power.

Ring-a-round the Rosie,

Outside in my garden enjoying the afternoon I heard children swimming next door over the fence. I enjoy the sound of children playing. It is a sound that always continues as the sound of the summer birds singing or the crickets that come out at night. Suddenly, a chorus of young children sang this song loudly,

  ”  Ring-a-round the rosie,

    A pocket full of posies,

    Ashes! Ashes!

    We all fall down.”

~ Common American version: Delamar (2001), pp. 38-9.

It was a wake-up call to me out of my summer daze.  As if ancestors were singing the rhyme as a memory of a time long gone by. A time of the Great Plague. I find this ironical that here and now in our modern times we are experiencing a similar plague or pandemic. I wonder if the dead are still grieving. As our generation will be grieving for a long time after the Coronavirus disease has passed. How this all came together as innocent children were playing is not so strange. Yet it felt as if the Realm of the Fay opened and superimposed their song around these children and through them. Dancing fairies swimming through the air as Puck grabbed the moment in a soft breeze.  


“The invariable sneezing and falling in modern English versions have given would-be origin finders the opportunity to say that the rhyme dates back to the Great Plague. A rosy rash, they allege, was a symptom of the plague, and posies of herbs were carried as protection and to ward off the smell of the disease. Sneezing or coughing was a final fatal symptom, and “all fall down” was exactly what happened.”

 ~[ Opie and Opie (1985), pp. 221–222.. ~Opie and Opie (1951), p. 365.

“Ring a Ring o’ Roses” or “Ring a Ring o’ Rosie” is an English nursery rhyme or folksong and playground singing game. It first appeared in print in 1881, but it is reported that a version was already being sung to the current tune in the 1790s and similar rhymes are known from across Europe. It has a Roud Folk Song Index number of 7925.”

~ Delamar, Gloria T.


Delamar, Gloria T. (2001) [1987]. Mother Goose, From Nursery to Literature. Lincoln, Nebraska. pp. 38–39. ISBN 978-0595185771.

Opie, Iona; Opie, Peter (1997) [1951]. The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes (2nd ed.). Oxford: Oxford University Press (Nabu Press). pp. 364–365. ISBN 978-0198600886.

Topanga to Dumetz

“When I was young some wise fool told me
Live & learn but nothing comes for free
So I did what I could when I was able
To keep the truth away from our table”

~ Corrosion of Conformity – Wiseblood


Fuck, fuck, fuck the old hippie dude gave me the two fingers up peace sigh. How did he fucking know what I was think’ in!?

OK I turned right and headed down to Topanga Canyon Blvd… down the wormhole towards a holograph of memories…. Think’ in,

“I bet I am the oldest person driving down Topanga to Dumetz Rd now?”

A flash of images came to mind…. Lynn, horse, boyfriends, ditch class go to beach, walking home in the rain, hippies hitchhiking.

The cars were racing as well as I in my little number, a green Fiat.

“Yes, I have the most memories here too… from being in my mom’s womb to now… fucking so much to think upon.”

Making a left turn on Burbank I held on to these wild assumptions of honest to goodness old lady punk truth that I was the oldest and had the most memories.

When I reached Shoup Ave., I raised and went with the bump and about flew away. Landing with a loud car zoom… it was bitchin’ too. Then as I raced my little number to the right of me was an old hippie dude with a grey beard looking at me near his car.

He walked toward an old house . He was fucking reading my mind. His eyes gave me a knowing transcendental slowed down pot look…

“Nope I’ve been here longer…!”


There’s blood on the street but there’s nothing to steal from me
Cause I walk alone but at least I walk for free
I listen to few and I’m fueled by fire
Guess now I’m old but not much wiser.|”~COC”

To Ride A Painted Pony Wild

To Ride A Painted Pony Wild


Publication Date: July 19, 2019


Woodland Hills, California,

“Often, we rode barefoot. When cold we had our
parents’ go shopping to buy us moccasins. We read
about the history of the Medicine Wheel and
experimented with our innocent religiosity.”

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley as a wild teenager was all about being close to nature. It is about the freedom to jump on one’s horse and ride like a native. It is a short time frame within the life of three girls and their horses. A subtle echo of music that inspired them. A fiction novella with a voice that is all-natural prose

This is a year celebration of my publication of this paperback. Writing a memoir is selective in what the focus may be. Moments of time, days, or a feeling that one inspires as perfume towards the readers mind. It may be the smell of wild sage and eucalyptus trees, or the feel of a horse’s breath on one’s shoulder.


New Flopside Comic Character.

There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. -Alexandre Dumas


Dumas Dude or Dudea…. clusterfuckers…


Mr. Fuck says with compassion,

 “So, Mr. Shit where do all these protestors go to the bathroom who are protesting all over the world?”

Mr. Shit ponders as an expert on the subject.

“All that toilet paper desperately bought a month ago is stuffed in their backpacks. Take a crap like a dog and use your doggie bag. Or they can shit in the lights like I do.”

“Mr. Shit that is only when you are drunk! Now that the bars are closed I do not…”

Mr. Shit affirms loudly,

“Have you not noticed the signs on people’s lawns recently? Pick up your dog’s poop? Well it is not the dogs’ !”

“How about their masks? They can use them as wiping devices.”

“Mr. Fuck that would spread the virus. Yet if any of those clusterfuckers poopers come down our street … I will have to retaliate … with my water & bleach super soaker. They are ‘dumas’ if they do not think they are infecting us all!”

Ritual Interlude: Crone’s Crowning.

Using Praying Mantis symbolism in my art has meaning to me. It is meant to be humorous, provocative, and honest. I have practiced the Crone’s Crowning ritual for years now. For me is an acknowledgement of growing older as a woman and dealing with transformation and seeing death on the same terms as transformation. They are one and the same, yet the idea of transformation is easier to deal with than death.

I have been working on this project for some time. I finally started to get the inspiration to finish it. I waited until after the summer solstice. I also blend the ritual in with the native American medicine wheel of nature. As it is clear in what is presented below. I find it helpful in this time of change, death, and civil rights protests. It is a time of transformation and death. We are all going through a type of world initiation. I am making this small offering to help.

Inspired by Susun S. Weed

Book: Menopausal Years, The Wise Woman Way

Alternative Approaches for Women 30 – 90

Poem ritual by Hudley

East Crone

Crones of The East

those that sing

the songs of the transforming

The songs of the dying

And songs of the universe.

South Crone

Crones of The South

those that stir the caldron

Of change

That set the feast

For the transforming

And dying.

West Crone

Crones of The West

those that open the door

To the transforming

And the dying

And shed the tears of letting go.

North Crone

Crones of The North

those who wait in the realm of the transforming

The realm of the dying.

Silently helping with smiling faces.


I’m acting dumb…

I am not one to get bored but at this age of 62 several decades of life do surface up now. Being isolated with three cats and a 19-year-old son is ok. Husband working on the front lines does cause anxious moments. We have a fine garden. I have growing wild Santa Monica Promethean Fennel, wild Hollyhocks and have so many other nature creatures to focus my attention on. We take safe drives now and then through the deserts and by the ocean. A friend of mine is doing an on going walk down punk memory lane and I just wrote an essay for another. He is coming out with a book about music venues. So, while outside in my garden I dreamed up taking a picture of the First Flipside I was part of.

Los Angeles fLIPSIDE fANZINE 16

Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine had not come out for about 5 months. There was a depressed feeling in the punk scene. I helped Al get it back going. Maybe it was my enthusiasm, but Al said he needed a paste-up artist. So, the story goes…. I only did a few Flipside Covers and this was my first. On a hot summer day Al traveled from Whittier to the San Fernando Valley to give me everything I needed to do this cover. I laid it out… it more ways than one. I goofed on this cover as you can see. You most likely will not think it is goofed up and think it was punk. I guess both ways work for me. Yet here it is. I hear Exene Cervenka had a museum in the 1990s where she had presented this Fear Cover with many other images. I did not know about it then I just was told about it later. OK by me.

I've taken this extravagant journey
So it seems to me
To arrive from nowhere
And to go straight back there
You know me--I'm acting dumb
You know the scene--very humdrum
Any Black Flag before Henry was the best…
The closest i got to the Saints with Algy Ward
Map made by Dee And Hilda…