Understanding life as one gets older is harmonious
things lost and insights gained
winds blow in the memories
time travel is easy…
child like fantasies still inspire
and adult responsibilities endure.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/understanding/
A knock at the door. I open the computer room window and say, “hello?”
“Hi are you sick of all the bugs around you, like ants,” said the young saleswoman?
“No, I have a bio dynamic garden where my garden is in balance with nature.”
“Don’t you hate bugs crawling on you?”
“I don’t mind them crawling on me. In fact, when we die they will win in the end.”
“Yes that may be true.”
“It has taken me many years to reach this balance, and I don’t want to use any form of pesticides in my environment.”
“Well this is my job.”
“You could find a better job, like solar energy or organic companies?”
“Maybe but this is my job. I want to keep it. WE all have to work.”
“Ya know, if it wasn’t for trees and bugs, WE, most likely would not have a very good life. A healthy garden is so important for the world we live in.”
“Well, this is my job, right,” she said happily.
“OK … your karma too.”
“I guess so.”
“Have a nice day.”
The young saleswoman was laughing as she said “you too!”
As a crone who loves her environment with a passion, I feel it is always my place to let a young woman know about life.
I love all sorts of things that creep and crawl in my garden.
No fucking pesticides. I want lots of healthy bugs in my garden like: bees, ants, butterflies, worms, flies, water bugs, lady bugs and the mighty praying mantis.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/purpose/
“… this is an important point about symbols: they do not refer to historical events; they refer through historical events to spiritual or psychological principles and powers that are of yesterday, today and tomorrow, and that are everywhere.” Page 53 Goddesses, Mysteries of the Feminine Divine~ Joseph Campbell.
Countless times I have seen the diadem.
To Venus
I read a book yesterday, and ancient one. Written by the Egyptians and Greeks and then translated by a Arab. Now in English by way of a flip book on a website. The Book of Crates tells about Venus wearing a diadem of white pearls. So since reading this quote I have noticed diadems everywhere.
First on the beginning of a Colombo show last night. This morning on Facebook where a friend posted an image of a tattoo of a diadem on a girl’s hip. It goes on from there. It would be too much to say it is another countless synchronicity that moves through my life. It has no literal meaning; none at all. Yet, it have the profoundness meaning to me.
In this world of bad politics and crumbling symbols that shine nothing from within, it is nice to know that some symbols talk to us from long ago… countless yesterdays… when the imagination ascended to beauty and the common people enjoyed a good conscience.
“…The sun, on the other hand, is never shadowed except in eclipse, and so does not carry its death within it; thus it represents consciousness disengaged from the field of time and space….” Page. 52 Goddesses, Mysteries of the Feminine Divine~ Joseph Campbell.
To flourish with the same electrical sounds around us every day can become an adventure wrapped in strange amusing memories.
Such as today when I used the lady’s room at my favorite store. A large fan vibrated throughout the small tilted covered bathroom. The sound reminded me of a scene from the horror film Phantasm (1979). In the film a youth named Mike Pearson finds a room in a mortuary where there are two large round metal polls. The room that contains the polls is bright. The polls vibrate and flourish relentlessly. A strange overwhelming loud pitched sound is heard. That is the same sound as in the lady’s room I visited today.
I once turned on our old dish washer every night. It sounded like the Alien UFO Machines in the remake of War of the Worlds. Images of long legs, tripods, squirting blood and the horror stimulated my scary dreaming. The sounds of the dish washer. Oh man, were a constant reminder every night of War of the Worlds. The old dish washer did not flourish. Now our new dishwasher sounds fine. No more scary dreams…. too bad.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/flourish/
Big Ma Ma golden green Mantis is my love for nature and she knows me!! On the tree in front of my office she comes to visit.
My favorite colors are green and purple.
Green is my favorite of these two colors. I have a green Fiat, tennis shoes and denim style jacket.
I have green eyes and love the green praying mantis. Golden green is a wonderful color because it usually announces Autumn.
Spring is lovely but I would rather be moving into cooler weather than warmer weather.
To the crystal green-eyed praying mantis with vision…. a song for you.
I video taped this today. A singing bird and even the sound of man… airplane in the background… it is in the contrast that one feels the value of life.
What is man made and what is created by nature and where the two meet !
Reading by Hudley 3/17/2026
We live in “the best of times and the worst of times.” Darkness and light play a game upon us all. Terrorists initiate fear in us all. It is a time to focus on what is enduring in life as the planets, the stars and Spring. The changing of the season is remarkable, accurate and even mathematically perfected. Humor, poems, and music move us to be less hateful and to show empathy proudly. As the wind blows on a warm Spring Day take the time to see the ritual of life.
Today I am thinking about Bernie Sanders and a little peace bird, a synchronicity, which can lead our footsteps towards a tickling of heartfelt humor and baskets of embracing hope. We need to follow our footsteps of synchronicity,
I authored this poem for my father years ago. It is about birds. Not human footsteps but the continuity of singing bird steps.
A bird song…
Today I heard the sound of a singing bird.
What type of bird I do not know?
A sparrow or maybe a blue bird sings
This lovely song of summer and spring.
I’ve heard this singing many times before
As an infant I heard the singing near
My parent’s pool
As a child I also heard the singing
While sliding down a grassy hill.
Now as an adult of forty
I remember all the times I’ve heard the singing
The same song but from different birds
This lovely song of summer and spring.
In California I’ve heard
Their tunes hundreds of times
I’ve changed so much since
The first time I heard the birds singing ‘tell now,
I assume I will hear the same song
A hundred times more,
Until I grow very old.
I think of the song
Of the singing birds
Of all the birds who have sung the song
So many birds, singing the same tune.
I wonder and I’m comforted
Listening to the tunes of the singing birds
It is the ‘ever living song
This lovely song of summer and spring.
For some day when I pass on
As the many birds, who have sung their songs
My children and grandchildren
And great-grandchildren
Will hear the same song,
Hopefully linking us together,
As the same song links
The sweet birds together.
The singing from the sky
The trees bringing us all together
The song will not have changed one note
This lovely song of summer and spring.
~ Holly Cornell May 23, 1993
(Hudley)
Oft’ my WordPress shelf
on this green day before the spring equinox
I pull a picture down.
A rendering I captured of Dad
Glad I did…
His birthday was on the 2nd of December
his Death March 17th…
three years now gone?
Once a day of dancing and drinking
has taken a different tone.
Even through grief
…faded with time…
He is still on my mind today.
I imagine him dancing
with denizens on the Pleiades
happy and content.
Dad before death
“For [Aleister] Crowley, who was a painter himself, the artist ranked above the magician on the totem pole of illuminism, and he considered poetry and art as precious tools for transmutimg one’s innermost psychic visions…”
Pg. 92 Wormwood Star, Spencer Kansa
Magic is fleeting as is a synchronicity. In contrast to this is the focus upon something that is fleeting. Art and poetry often catch the essence of a fleeting beauty, feeling or moment. The continuity of fleeting moments seem like a continuous projection of a single life. As a kid I use to draw little images in the corner of a large pad of paper. Flipping through the fleeting images we have animation. For me, life is animation for our growing soul.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fleeting/
The heart and the mind often long for different things.
Longing for understanding where the two come together in knowing peace.
Where one does not try to outsmart the other.
Longing to fit in and longing to run away.
Longing to build a bridge and hang with Hermes.
Longing to create…
Never ending…
Longing for the dead
miss them.
The Seminary of Praying Mantis Publishing
Hudley Flipside
In the comfort of my bedroom-turned-office, I’ve become a publisher and a documentarian, passionately exploring the vibrant world of punk rock history as both a historian and a professional consultant. Every day, I cherish the opportunity to pursue my dreams in this space, feeling truly blessed, as if guided by the gentle presence of a praying mantis.
“…In peace, Love tunes the shepherd’s reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior’s steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
True love’s the gift which God has given
To man alone beneath the heaven;
It is not fantasy’s hot fire,
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;
It liveth not in fierce desire,
With dead desire it doth not die;
It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind,
In body and in soul can bind…”
Close to 40 something years ago, as a co-publisher of a small underground fanzine I helped out many bands and individuals. It was an unofficial official job. Lots of work every day. As the years went on, I kept my mouth shut and did my job. I had many opportunities to confront and talk to the punk oligarchy that presided in our office home.
I turned away and did not speak up. If I had the opportunity to speak up now and go back and confront the internal control that moved like a rip tide toward magazines, records, and videos, I would have stood up and defined my needs as a member at the table of true anarchy.
A place of communication and ideas. Here is what I would say,
“I want to publish books and open up a coffee shop.”
This was before that mermaid opened her fins and poured her vast empire of java. Little up-town Whittier California was prime at that time. It would be a place of publishing, art, good coffee and maybe some beer for sale too! This idea still pivots in my mind since reading a book during the late 1970’s.
I have lost the name of the book or the author. The book’s title is “Spooky Foot” or close to that. I do know the general ideas and concepts in the book.
There was a woman who was a very sensitive person. She engaged in an artist underground movement.
In her biography she lived in England, and she opened up an art center, coffee shop, music live, gallery, beer shop. It was a place for all ages and kinds of people to come together and be creative.
To share their inspirations. Oh yes, the best part is that the author of this book said one of her dreams was to open a small publishing company in her back house. Small but respectable and she achieved her goal. That is what I would have changed back then.
So, I try to live up to that invisible dream still. Slight but it is right.
At midnight, when asleep are men at length,
Then shines for us the moon,
Then gleams for us the star,
We rove and dance and sing
Nor gay till then we are.
At midnight, when asleep are men at length,
We seek the alder grove,
And in the pale moonbeam,
We rove about and sing,
And gaily dance a dream.
English translation by W.G. Thomas
“If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.”
– Somerset Maugham
Laura could hear the whisperers saying,
“Be quiet, or ya, ya, ya… no one is listening!”
Embarrassed to speak out. The words did not sound as beautiful as in her mind. Then she noticed as she began to read more books, she found that she understood complex concepts. Forming a natural relationship with symbols and archetypes that she was not taught in school. Yet, the whisperers continued to try and suppress her writing.
“You are dyslexic… you cannot spell or talk correctly, or all those other people already are in college and now retired hold impressive degrees. Henry Rollins hates your guts.”
Laura did not stop writing.
As an older mature woman thinks often in reflection, she thought this to herself,
“Why do people write?”
Responded the whisperers,
“They are all unique as their fingerprints.
Some egos are too big, and they do seem to want attention! Some write because they like being alone with the art of creation… melting into the vast aloofness of their creations. Touched by the fingerprints of vast words. Something beyond them trying to touch down here on earth.”
The whisperers mocked her again saying ….
“You are a melody that has been played too many times, a jazz standard played every night for too many years.”
Laura then typed these words,
“I love the feelings an old Jazz melody brings.”
So, she continues to write and create… so many more things.
Fuck the whispers and Henry Rollins.
A Matter of Life and Death (1946) Conductor 71, professor Snape in Harry Potter 7, and President Obama recently came together for me via a tear. A film, a book and a real life happening. It could be life imitating art or art imitating life. All three made an impression of me within the last couple months.
It was a tear in a film that was captured by a character from a woman in love. He put the tear on his rose and inspired a lawyer in heaven to win a case for a man in love.
It was in a book where a dying man gave a tear to someone to show his love for another. To save and share a memory.
It was a real life tear that the President shed today, a tear for lost children due to a terrible act of violence.
All three came together for me today. It is a synchronicity experience in a symbolic tear and a real tear that to me represents a subjective feeling part of my human soul and conscience.
To cry for love, grief, joy or saddens inspired by the art of a writer or real life person is a worthy experience. I was touched by a film, book and the act of a real person and I feel that for me it is wonderful that I can have art imitate life, or life imitate art in my own inward experience.
In one of my first college English classes I was taught that the objective and the subjective can cross over as in a metaphor yet more often as a simile.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate”
Sonnet 18 Shakespeare
It may be existential and philosophical to be inspired by a book or a film, and real life tear expressed freely and sincerely shared with the world.
Why a tear comes to mean something to me is amazing. Why it clicked together in my mind and caught the attention of my heart who can say. Yet I know poets and writers ponder on many things… and I am sure I am not the first to wonder about a tear romantically, lovingly, or sadly. Be it form a book, a film or real life experience.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unpopular/
Music, music, music. The sound of the music. I can not say there is one favorite instrument that moves me. It depends on what kind of mood I am in and what kind of music is pulling at me. I do have a saying that I am inspired from one note to the next, one song to the next. There was a time when I constantly listened to one song to the next.
A good beat is a must as well as a strong guitar…
Yet the saxophone is the instrument that speaks to my soul. I think for me to feel deeply, sexy and inspired with life; that would be the instrument for me.
The sound of the guitar can rip through my spine, the bass hugging the drums makes me quake, the xylophone feels like rain,
it is the saxophone that cools my insane. It is not to late… to learn to play… I say I say….
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/strike-a-chord/
The adventure while taking walks in the fog brings to my mind smells of the earth. A wonder of this is one wonder I crave.
Walks down wild hills and up hills as a youth, pepper trees and mighty eucalypts trees embraced me as a wonder-joy of being alive.
A winter day with a cold face as a door opens to the heat of a fireplace. The smell of cooking and the wonder of a satisfying meal waiting for me.
I wonder upon the faces of my parents as they took care of me; a childlike wonder of trust and love given.
Holding baby kittens a few days old. The warmth, cuteness, and perfection of “Cat.” Countless days did I wonder and see a kitten, cat or tom give a perfect yoga bath to their body. A joy that fills many years of happy meditative wonder.
The wonder, the greatest, is the wonder of a stream or waterfall. This magic fills me with desires beyond the word… wonder.
In conclusion I hear the wonder of an Arthurian Knight (at least in my mind), Neil Diamond, singing a Beatles song!!
![bf2d3775808236f8e827a52fdbf3c1f1_48[1]](https://i0.wp.com/hudleyflipside.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/bf2d3775808236f8e827a52fdbf3c1f1_481.jpg?ssl=1)
I read in one of my books that shy and introverted people tend to blossom on the internet. Also that it is women over 40 that made the Kindle come alive and become so successful.
I am part of those statistics and I don’t mind. It is a vortex vertex… in and out. Taking it in like breathing while learning and pushing it out like creating.
It is in this process that I find myself smiling and I like that feeling. Mirror, mirror on the wall is not just something that holds our reflection looking back at us.
It is a dimension into another realm. It asks questions and demands answers.
A test. Sometimes I find that when an individual tries to override their ego… the collective ego of humans somehow comes beseeching them… the poor soul.
This is a strange thing. I wish we could all just be happy for blossoming people who out feel their controlling egos.
Mom’s rose by Hudley
Walking through the fear of standing tall is how karma kicked me in the butt. Now I can do it. She did not want me to stop writing, or painting or being strong!
A few years ago, before my parents passed, we tried to get them to use cell phones and computers. The best we could do is for mom. She snuck upstairs where the computer was hidden from Dad, he did not like computers, and she played poker on the computer, and the game Hearts too. She had to adjust her time so as not to interfere with her attention given to Dad. He was demanding of her time that way.
Maybe she found this fun freedom when Dad was watching Golf on TV or some other annoying sport. Maybe it is because he went to the store to get some groceries? You bet Mom had her earphones on listening to the radio. Listening to her Dodgers when the season and clandestine entertainment permitted.
Now I am talking about dreams again. Sometimes it is not all Jungian archetypical stuff!! Mom walks her drama in my dreams; pointing to things I must deal with. I will do my best to understand her. Yet as we have both learned, foresight does not help… it only prepares us for the future; we cannot effect a change.
Now that I have done your bidding maybe a bright flower in my path through synchronicity …would be nice about now.
Just hanging around the fire with Coyote, Bear, Buffalo, and Eagle…
Is the smoke appeasing you? I hope so. I am still grieving.
… onto the game of Hearts.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=snuck
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/phobia-shmobia/
Questioning change and our contemporary world… I feel is a healthy thing to do. It may not be part of the Status quo to see through the eyes of my two friends here, but it is wonderfully real and takes me to many a dark midnight, lit by their friendly fires of wisdom.
Unknown to one another Goethe and Blake meet in anathematizing Newton.
~ Great Writings of Goethe, Stephen Spender
Night Thoughts;
You I pity, twice unhappy stars, Being lovely, blessed with bright effulgence, Gladly shedding light for ships in danger, Yet by gods and mortals unrewarded: Love you cannot, never yet knew love! But incessantly eternal hours Move your ranks through vast celestial spaces. O, what distant journeys you’ve completed Since, reposing in my loved one’s arms, You and midnight wholly I forgot.
~ Goethe, Translated By Michael Hamburger.
I take two pills as symbolic of something more…and yes, I take them whenever the two pills present their medicine to me. I have gobbled them down like a feverish child in the dark. Wondering why they are there and why they have inspired me so. In fact, I was just deep in thought wondering why I love them so. Holding nothing of my usual shyness or mistrust against them ever. But how can two symbolic pills be them?
One is William Blake, and one is Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe. One English and one German. They fill me from the inside out making; sense out of life, light out of darkness and hope out of failure.
I am not an expert on either one. I have many books about them. I reflect on their work, and I often only need one very small pill, of either of them, to awaken my healing to something better than the mundane life I often live.
To anticipate answers in a creative spark. Their art and words open onto me as if a wonderful knowing of a strange land forgotten. They know imagination and all the powers there of.
This is the medicine in their pills to me. Their comprehensive approach to life is put forth in their creations. I will continue to take them as my extramundane pills.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/red-pill-blue-pill/
A bar in the living room and a bar in his beauty salon. Drinks at the Chinese restaurant on Ventura Blvd.
Lights that lit up the bar at Christmas time reflecting off gifts simmering gold, green and tall bottles of colorful liquid. Tall cupboards that he reached for, then pouring that rich golden juice.
Named at a bar from a book while she was in labor. Drives out with beers at the side. Music and laughter, screams and yelling while holding a hand and butter on bread.
Two faces, one happy and one sad over their red brick fireplace. He always reached for that bottle…named Delilah. Jazz playing on the radio.
I thought those bars would last forever; I was happily fooled. They are now gone forever only stinging my memory now!!
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/brilliant-disguise/
Once while working as a Home Health Aide on the East coast, I did a nice thing for a wise old lady. She had grace, experience, and savvy. Her home was a grand home that had been in her family for generations.
In my mind she seemed like Scarlett O’Hara. Now in a wheelchair most of the time she told me stores that I will not share here.
She survived her family and had none to tend to her needs. Her memories were as clear and vivid as her mind, well her past memories not her present ones as much. One story I will highlight is how her father made Elderberry wine. They kept the home-made wine in their basement.
Her home had a spiral staircase, beautiful chandeliers, and ghosts. I focused on the living room and kitchen because this was all the house that was in-use. We were both alone in Rochester New York.
I decided to visit her on Christmas Eve… yes, I visited the wise old lady. I loved her story so much that I gave her a small gift of Elderberry wine. We shared a shot of the wine and that was all!
I hope I never forget her smile. I put the wine up in a closet far from her knowing reach.
The Visiting Nurses Association told me another aide found the wine and accused me of being an alcoholic. In my defense they did not appreciate the truth I told them. I guess I stepped over my bounds, yet I know this wise old lady and her ghostly dad… had a good ole’ family time that Christmas Eve. I sure did.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/nice-is-as-nice-does/
“I am all that was, that is, and that is yet to come”
~Isis-Neith
I will define the crisis as the decisive moment. The moment when action has to be made. If action is not taken … the rogue wave will crash, then chaos potentially with time, will go back to some sort of normal consistency.
After an earthquake or right after a fight, crisis moves through us like a tornado. Stress and hate sometimes can also create a funnel-shaped whip of black magic. Yet, in all of this I behave I am OK in most situations.
I don’t like being in crisis with the Justice System because it works so darn slow. The Justice System is a slow-moving cow. A cow regurgitates everything very slowly. If you got big bucks, it works better and faster, but it is still a crisis and is a frozen pain!!
Humor helps to calm those terrible times of decisive moments. Also, I have learned that deciding at the peak of a crisis movement is the wrong time to do it. It is a paradoxical reality!
