That’s one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough: Ignore the awful times and concentrate on the good ones.
~ Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut
As an older earthling, at least I believe I am one, in these rather ‘awful times’ I find it easy to ‘concentrate on the good ones!’ Today when the car radio played the song Come As You Are by Nirvana for the millionth time, I had a strange flash back to a similar punk anthem. Amoeba was the song. One day I drove out to Troy High School in Orange County all by myself. Adolescents and Agent Orange played that day. The song that I superimposed in my mind over Come As You Are is the song Amoeba. It was so clean, powerful, and moving. The songs feel the same in intensity too. They knocked my socks off. I include the live review below from Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine # 20. (The Circle Jerks, Halloween Issue. October 1990.)
I have other good times too like the days I gave birth to my two sons, riding Sony, the white mustang, freely over the hills of the Santa Monica Mountains on a foggy morning, and the first time I had sex at 15 in my parents’ downstairs bathroom. All new and interesting adventures.
So again, I have posted about life being like a “Slaughterhouse-Five” experience. And though times are very crazy I hope we all can find comfort in our good memories.
“Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,” said Scrooge. “But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.” ― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
Birthdays and deaths get so much kindness in the media and especially on Facebook. I am hopeful that after we pass, we can come back and look and see all the nice things said. It is always good most of the time. Unless you are a serial killer, a dictator, or fuck-up politician that manages to get away with killing thousands of people.
In my esoteric studies many perspectives parallel. That when we die, we view all the terrible things we have done to others and all the good. This is contemplated by those who teach karma and how it works after death. Yet sometimes you can see it work before death. If you live long enough.
In famous literature we have the wonderful “A Christmas Carol. In Prose. Being a Ghost Story of Christmas, commonly known as A Christmas Carol, is a novella by Charles Dickens.” Here karma plays the karma drama in real time.
Another of my favorites is the musical Carousel, 1956. Billy Bigelow does die but he gets to come back after death as a ghost to influence the living in profound ways.
I like to visualize that we will all have either opportunity if the time is right. To influence others in a positive way, or to somehow be co-creators of our destinies.
“Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright.”
The she-wolf clan worked for the extraordinarily rich at the time of the Inquisition. Working in their fields and farms as shepherds. Living in the woods and sitting in their clans around their campfires. Sometimes wearing the skin of the wolf. Sacred to them and very ancient old and ritualistic. Like many aboriginal people who lived off the land, sometimes during the colder seasons when hunting and gathering was bleak they had to be creative. A chosen one would put on their wolf skin and go to the rich man’s field and steal one or two of the sheep to feed their families. When caught they were crucified with wolf skin on. Declared,
The devil she-wolf …
and so, the legend was born.
Every autumn we are reminded of the return of the she-wolf who seeks justice from an unjust world …. especially on the first full moon of Autumn!
We heard a loud cry from the second story building and theater and looked up. There was Ross.
“Hudley, in a heavy English accent.
It was a few years ago in Ventura County that GBH came out to greet my family and I. Colin saying,
“We got a real treat for you; we will be playing Lycanthropy live tonight.”
As a fanzine writer I had the great opportunity of meeting all the bands. I became close to Charged GBH. They would tease me saying that they would play Lycanthropy live. So, on stage the drum, bass and guitar would lead into the song to expand into another. I was not the only one being teased either.
I admit my hypertension cannot quite grasp the enthusiasm my body wants to express these days. The full room of sweaty bodies, punches and assaults were not as extreme during the 1980s. Yes, the slam pit was tough yet there was a unity that was more supportive if you fell or were a girl or she-wolf.
On the path to Senior Advisory from the world of a past nobody punk
This is my dilemma. Currently I find filmmakers, documentarians, and authors approaching me for information from my past. They seem to want to approach me as a friend, but often are only interested in sharing my history, licensing past material that was my hard work. I see it as they want to gather as much information from me, squeeze me like a lemon, and then push me aside. They put out the documentary, book and may exclude me as a source, edit me out or not pay me anything. I see them promoting their documentaries and books, yet they do not invite me on the expertise promotional panel. I feel like their gopher.
I am perplexed on how to own myself from this process by saying no to them now. I have come out with self-published books to tell my story. The same people who want my information do not seem to want to support my products.
I consider my ten years of experience in the underground music world as valid. It must be because I was just approached by three people this week. I already documented the material they want years ago.
I just do not want to give myself and my information away so freely anymore. I have been burned and devalued a few times.
Yet there is also the part of me that wants to share in the full story that they are pursuing. I do want to promote my books. Yet the material they ask me for, may or may not be, copyrighted. I cannot give them permission to license some of the material they are asking me for. Many staph people contributed to the work I was involved with. I did co-own a past publication, Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine that included records and live music video tapes and radio DJ tapes…. but at the time we did not believe or practice copyright laws.
Recently I was approached by Dave Grohl who is putting out a documentary about traveling bands. His media person approached me very forcefully. She wanted to license material that I may or may not be able to license. She did not want to take no for an answer. So, for fun I gave them the run around stating if they interview me in the documentary, I could talk about the image they wanted. They have not gotten back to me. Again, they want the material and not my experience or friendship.
I am perplexed and overwhelmed and simply do not know what to do. I do not want to hide my head in the sand I like sharing my story.
Do I state clearly that I charge a fee for all my words no matter how and where they are used? Can I consider myself as a Senior Advisor with publishing rights for all my shared material? Can I, is it feasible, set up a legal form stating that if you include my work that you must also include me as a credited source and have me on your promotional panel of experts?
Autumn always takes on a new flavor of life. Looking for a poem and an image in my vast collection of poems, course essays, watercolor paintings and photos can be overwhelming.
I looked so different through my 30, 40 and 50s. I was round and motherly sometimes with exceptionally long hair. Yet with a family to take care of I guess I did not worry so much about how I looked. I was healthy. A little depressed about my images but kind of happy how I look now which is much different and polished.
I was looking for a poem I wrote in 1989 entitled, The Rose that fell in love with the Owl. I thought about this poem due to my current discovery of two clusters in the constellation of Cassiopeia.
Caroline’s Rose or the White Rose Cluster and the Owl Cluster are in the same constellation of Cassiopeia. So, the poem popped into my mind. That is one thing I have learned in my old age. My mind is particularly good at holding on to things and analyzing information. I must admit it is a strange poem after typing it up and not reading it for close to 40 years.
The Rose That Fell in Love with The Owl.
The owl to the rose: “Come visit me if you can, Don’t come if you can’t, For I won’t be waiting for you, And don’t be waiting for me. For I don’t need you, I don’t want you, But If you do share yourself, That is fine with me, Or not, I’ll be happy either way. For your happy, sexy, and warm, Whether you’re with me or without me, I’m happy, sexy, and warm, Whether I’m with you or without you.
For we are two individuals, I’m an owl and you are a rose, When together or apart!
Any blending while together, Is an experience from the heart, For you care for me, And I care for you, But don’t want me, And don’t wait for me, For you are wanting to hold me, Is like grasping ambiguously, In the dark.
Watch my wings glimmer, As I fly away. And your needing to be with me, Is only an illusionary warm spark.”
The rose took a long gulp of air …
The owl: “I don’t want to desire or have any expectations for you, So, don’t want or desire or have any expectations for me. For if you have any of that stuff for me, I’ll make me as a mirror, And reflect yourself back at you, Cracking the hope, Spearing that bond, Throwing you back to yourself, Any gift you wanted to give, my dear. Don’t want what you can’t have! I’ll miss holding you, I’ll miss caressing you, Even if your thorns stick me. I’ll give you a few little essences of myself, But the only thing this will be, Are the memories. And when you are on your way home, You’ll still be happy, sexy, and warm, I won’t be there, But I do care, Don’t think that you need me, Because you have you, don’t think that you want me, because you can’t have me, because when you thorn’s cry, aching for the owl you love, I won’t be there, Take what is around you, Another owl or another friend, Because you can’t have me.” The owl quickly flew away crying a “Hoot.”
The rose, Cried herself to sleep
Knowing that the owl’s honesty was something she had to accept. And her open bloom so heavy with a peak of scent, drew back and closed. A bud back and her way home from the blossomed dreams reached expanded and now had contracted, calmed, and withdrawn, shaking, shaking with the warp and weft of the living patterns of life.
But while sitting there she heard a cat talking to a dog behind her. He barked and cracked a joke…
Rose: “He, He, He” … her belly knotted with humor.
I remember when the Woolsey Fire hit our neighborhood. It was terrifying and I was so afraid. The lovely Santa Monica Mountains were raged by a wildfire to such a terrible degree. I thought it would never end but it did. Nature is slowly recovering. Our communities are still feeling the loss…. Yet holding on to our thread of life makes what we endured meaningful. One cannot deny that nature can be a powerful monster. The elements can take away our sense of balance and hope. Yet again we can not let go of the thread of life because we are part of this, and we will go on regardless of life lost and how nature is damaged. Bless us all.
Michael Meade speaks of a thread that we need to hold onto in these changing times. It is a sobering podcast that shares hope. He does not look away from our individual or collective shadow either. We must acknowledge and not deny what we are facing now during a pandemic, wildfires, and political rage…
Listening to David McCullough speak about American history is very fulfilling. He is so knowledgeable and gifted at telling history through stories. He says that the documents he studies are usually personal journals, letters, or other such material. He still only types on a typewriter and does not use the computer.
McCullough says that written letters and writing in general is becoming a lost art and feels we should continue to educate our children on the skills of writing. He feels that in the future there will be no personal journals for further historians to pull from.
I understand his perspective, but I think has underestimated the internet and computers in general. He is not looking at the work that we bloggers do. We write. Our blogs are the journals of the future. I always tell my kids that if anything happens to me here is the little black book with all my passwords. You can enjoy my writings or not. I am thinking of my grandchildren or great grandchildren and beyond as well.
So, to join Mr. McCullough’s perspective and mine I will most likely start to pull my seven years of writing and art and put them in little books. Gather it all and have them available. I was so charged with enthusiasm when he encouraged people to write and write journals. I know I will get the expected criticisms. Everyone is doing that, the good old days, what you are doing is a waste of time etc., but I enjoy it and that is what history is all about. David McCullough gives me the inspiration to be a writer and that it does matter.
“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
My Paperback Books for sale on Amazon. Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine Ten Year Anniversary Issue # 54 (replica) Paperback,
1979 – 1989 punk & fanzine publisher memoir. A complementary book meant to read along side the Los Angeles Flipside Fanzine # 54 Ten Year Anniversary Issue (replica). Novel, honest and engaging. A unique story by a woman journalist who wrote about the punk rock scene. Now celebrating 40 plus years of punk rock.
The Semianry Of Praying Mantis Publishing, Non-fiction novella.
Faerie Story By Hudley Flipside
The Seminary Of Praying Mantis Poems by Hudley Flipside An Underground Bard
The Praying Mantis Watercolor Gallery By Hudley Flipside
Welcome to The Seminary Of Praying Mantis.
Praying mantis shows me her story of life, death, and rebirth. For me she is an image or symbol of the divine in all things. I watch the praying mantis in my garden and have taken her image as my logo. She is an amazing little creature, and I relate to her connection to nature. We are both wild and part of this strange world. She is a part of my mythology as I am part of hers.