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.
My Lady looks in sweet wonder from heaven,
The people of Sumer parade,
before the holy Inanna.
Inanna, the Lady Who Ascends into the Heavens,
I sing your praises, holy Inanna.
The Lady Who Ascends into the Heavens,
is radiant on the horizon.
Maypole Mayhem is a painting by Patty Donoghue which was uploaded on May 22nd, 2018.
“It’s funny how pride and ego are the very last human vanities to go.” ~ D. Brinkley
Today is the last day of April. Tomorrow is May Day the ancient festival for the beginning of summer. The death of April and the birth of May.
Death is heavy on my mind these days. So many have died due to this virus all over the world. Putting politics aside I want to look at the fear we hold in us about death.
I have many books on my bookshelves that speak of life, death and rebirth. One does not have to have a religiosity to participate in this rite of passage. It is pretty much out of our control. I do not have the direct quote here, but I remember reading about how William Blake felt about death in one of his many quotes. That he would rather see the afterlife as filled with lovely angels. His heaven was a blissful imagined place.
“The sensations verged on orgasmic, yet my thoughts were spinning a mile a minute.” ~ D. Brinkley
I took two books to look at today. To read and reflect upon once again. One is Dannion Brinkley’s book Secrets of the Light and the other is The Tibetan Book of The Dead.
Both books compliment each other in that they talk about death. Dannion was struck by lightning, died and was brought back to life. He has written three books about his near-death experiences. The Tibetan Book of The Dead is a creative and ritualistic book about death in a helpful way. It speaks of the Bardo.
“Bardo means gap; it is not only the interval of suspension after we die but also suspension in the living situation; death happens in the living situation as well. The bardo experience is part of our psychological make-up.” ~ Commentary
I think this is where the world finds itself right now. A gap between the dead and the living, between the staying home and going out and between the past and future. Each moment is the place of bardo, and we are, in a profound sense, all being struck by lightning. We are responsible for this, what is happening in our world. How can we make it better? Well that is up to you.
So, I took it upon myself to get ready to have my mind and heart prepared. I also think on all those who have died and are dying. A prayer is in order.
Even Albert Einstein as a master mind scientist had a way to see this psychological make-up of humanity,
“There are two ways to live your life. One is as through nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
I live my life upon that miracle. I want to be ready for death if it finds me.
A prime oracular from Flopside Comics. It has been awhile ! We at Flopside Comics listened to The Dumpster give his weird ass oracular speech of lowest degree. Also known as “the state of ‘fuck the union’.”
Mr. Fuck remarks that,
“His speech is poorly written and lacking facts , bad grammar, word propaganda and bull shit … it deserves to be ripped up ! I’d burn it too!“
Yet Dumpster mentioned California as a sanctuary state , he pronounced it as “stank- uary” state , a place of rape by Illegal Immigrants.
Mr. Shit also loudly declared,
“It Is the worst illogically written propaganda I have witnessed! It is like saying how bad Florida is because a ‘serial-killer’ killed in his home State of Florida! I wonder how many young girls were or still are being abused at Mar-a-Lago?”
We at Flopside comics all agree that
Donald John “Jackass“ Trump aka as Dumpster is the lowest of the low!
Life can be many things at once. Goodness and badness, light and dark, friends and enemies. These are the polarities that we are facing currently in our world of extremes. Even though there is a third path, as in the fact, regardless bees are still making honey. Just go outside and find a bush with flowers. If you live in the very cold you may have to wait until spring. Here is California my hanging rosemary is going to town. The sound of bees is my convent to the earth. My repetitious theme song is by 10 Years After, If I Could Change The World. Redone by another band more on the punk side. So here we come to the core of my focus. The 60s, and the late 70s, and 80s. A decade each.
The 60s were an amazing time for free thinking and youthful rebellion against corruption. A sick government and a terrible war. Yet in this illuminated time darkness was born by the name of Trump. Likewise, the 80s a new music scene revolutionized forward with unclassified music that became divided and classified. Still mighty awesome. Then we have the general Qassim Soleimani who was just assassinated, who was born as a prime one for the punk scene.
Donald Trump born June 14, 1946 (age 73). He was prime for the 1960s as his youthful young adult time. Hippie time. Now we have the general Qassim Soleimani who was born March 11, 1957. He was born at a prime time for the genesis of the punk rock phenomenon. A punk.
The most creative times and inspired times in history the dictators are born. In the darkest times and in a vacuum of hate the best are born that humanity has to offer this troubled earth. In generational time frames a hippie kills a punker.
Nonetheless, do not lose sight of what is now happening right now. We have a few knights rising to the call. I can see their light crescendos in the darkness. Very androgynous like most bees.
Praying Mantis Kachina ~ Praying and dancing for fog and sprinkles of rain to cool the earth !!
A crescent of fire surrounds us. This is not the first time I have seen the San Fernando valley surrounded by fire. Yet, as the Santa Ana winds blow, I remember nightmarish times of fires and even earthquakes while growing up here. How precious everything becomes as my blood pressure peeks. Our truck is packed with valuable and important things. If we had to leave much will be left behind. Packed away in our truck I have our tax returns, Flipside Magazines, artwork and my Red Book (Jung) and journals. My family members have their few special items too. Funny what one puts in their cars in an emergency. I am saddened for those who did not get the chance to do what we have done. It is good for the psyche to prepare and organize when possible danger approaches.
I write when I am confronted with change, stress and heartbreak. Maybe a well-deserved karmic war zone~ who knows? I think upon all the wild animals. The deer, buck, cougars and coyotes , the wild animal are surviving their best too. Bless all the wild things that grow in the Santa Monica mountains.
I am consecrated by my wild Promethium fennel growing in my front yard. Taken from the Santa Monica mountains, a wild shaft that was once filled with seeds. On the wild burning hills the seeds will survive the fires. The wild yucca will come forth once again….
Below are a few posted embellished stories that I wrote that are indirectly about the Santa Monica mountains. A positive movement in dark times of vast destruction as my head bounds painfully with grief !!
Audience members stand up to listen during a Senate Judiciary Committee markup hearing on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC on September 28, 2018, for the nomination of Brett M. Kavanaugh to be an associate justice of the Supreme Court of the United States. – Kavanaugh’s contentious Supreme Court nomination will be put to an initial vote Friday, the day after a dramatic Senate hearing saw the judge furiously fight back against sexual assault allegations recounted in harrowing detail by his accuser. (Photo by Brendan Smialowski / AFP) (Photo credit should read BRENDAN SMIALOWSKI/AFP/Getty Images)
July moves into August. A time of justice and heat, a time of foresight and deep. For me it is about news… some bad and some good news. I have known this time of the year to be delirious dark and forbidden. Today it has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.
Between our psyche and the cosmos is magic. Magic moves between our hidden unconscious coming forth from our dreams. Yes, that Magic coming with psychic foresight of knowing. Real causality or synchronicity does not matter to me. Natural magic! I live all combinations.
Yesterday we went to Naval Air Station Point Mugu. Driving to Ventura from the San Fernando Valley can be harsh on a Sunday. We found a little farming street to follow down to Point Mugu. It romances the beautiful Pacific Ocean. Which is why we were there.
My dad was a WWII Veteran. As kids we enjoyed fishing on the pier that is located on this naval base.
Husband and I sat in our car for sometime. Wondering if we could approach and visit the pier for old memories. We did. A tight solider asked for husband’s driving-license. As the solider was taking the license from husband, I explained my family story. Before you could think we were quickly told to make a U-turn. No good byes or safe journeys.
Point Mugu has since merged with nearby Naval Construction Battalion Center Port Hueneme to form Naval Base Ventura County (NBVC).
We ended up at Port Hueneme Historical Society Museum. A sweet little place that smelled pleasantly old! The building was filled with old women and older history items. Outside the rather small building were many monarch butterflies. Hub bobbing around ourselves like best friends. We were then told the story.
It sounds like a magical potion. Milk weed, Cosmo flowers and chrysalis. It was the story of how someone took the time to love the process of this lovely butterfly. All it takes is a little love and a few nasty weeds to attract the attention of nature’s finest beauties.
Today upon my waking up I enjoyed a very good dream. A dream I have been waiting for since my mother’s death. It was a closure dream. In this dream husband opened the front door to the usual UPS knock. There was another package, another calculus book, or similar book, for the kids. Then we heard another knock on the front door. This time I opened the door. From top to bottom the front door was filled with packages. My husband gave me a guilty look. A pouting praying mantis face.
“It is not Christmas time,” I said.
I pulled out one of the packages. A large white one. A box that might conceal a dress or new pants. Then I saw on top the name ‘Holly’ written in cursive.
“How could mom give me this after her death?”
A wonderful gift from her. That is what mom would do. Write our names on top of our gifts. It was her writing…. I know it by heart!
Today has reached an illuminating place of thanksgiving.
Urania is talking to Uranus
Ambassador to the planets and stars
She calls to Earth
As a friend of friends,
Catalyst of goodness and humor,
to Uranus ascending electric magma
Eccentric insect antenna muses
To be the best
we can be.
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.