Tag Archives: Goddess and Home

ya! For the world…

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One drop of rain

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SEVEN YEARS ON WORDPRESS !!


th (18)idn’t speak much when I was young. Was not interesting in writing either. Only a few poems. I played with my friends, but I found it more and more difficult to communicate at school. I felt restricted, invisible or persecuted by my own peers. I was wild and not awake to the pounding of an education that seemed incredulous to me. I now realize I had foresight, creativity and a natural spiritualism that could not find contact. Nature was receptive! My mom and dad tried with lots of watercolors and paper.  A giant black board was painted in my room. Endless chalk drawings were created and erased, drawn and erased. The old player piano in the boys’ room is where I spent hours playing any song I wanted that I learned by heart only.


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Did I not express myself in school because of fear? Was the constant fighting and alcoholism in my household push me down into myself? Dyslexic, autism or a painful shyness was an issue with me? Children were not diagnosed back then.

Having foresight was a curse when no one listened!  I did not have the proper device , neither did I have the wise ability to  reach out  towards others. I did not have a voice!

Now at 60 I realize my heart & mind are mature and keen enough to reach that growing child. That is my reasoning currently for a need to create a hub like The Seminary Of Praying Mantis.  To share my voice and reach a global community! I believe this is the truth. Finding one’s voice and sticking to it is wonderful. The last eight years have made this happen for me.


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I am celebrating 8 years with WordPress. My HUB in a global community.

While spending a few hours observing nature this afternoon. I know that the many voices were loud and some subtle. The chirp-chirp birds, to the black crows on tall cypress trees. Above me high in the sky are the circling hawks and the commercial jets. Sounds of life. One drop of rain touched me. I am one drop of rain too.

I invite you to support The Seminary of Praying Mantis and celebrate with me. I have words to read, items for sale and images to make you laugh. I have grown as a writer, author and artist.  It is amazing that so many tools are available where one can publish ones’ works! It can be achieved very cheaply and sometimes even for free as with Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing. I have taken the core of my punk philosophy, wild nature, foresight and freedom to communicate with the world. I found a place to express myself. It is colorfully rewarding….

My Punkalullaby: The Seminary Of Praying Mantis (Punk Fanzine Memoir Book 1) http://a.co/2ZeXdAU


weird juxtapose

Viewing an image of Rocketdyne today at a Car Repair Shop in Canoga Park  I was amazed by the structure. The view was showing the perspective where the viewer can see the Verdugo mountain range in the background. At the time of the picture, 1950s, Rocketdyne is surrounded by farmlands and wild fields. Canoga Ave-Owensmouth and Victory Blvd.-Vanowen outline the buildings by rough asphalt two lane highways. Rocketdyne looks like a large computer chip including a large parking lot filled with cars. Ironically and sadly today the same once futuristic rocket-plant is now an empty field where while flowers and weeds are growing. The only things remaining from the 1950s are a few old pepper and eucalyptus trees. It is now hopelessly surrounded by cars, apartments and more apartments. A weird juxtapose in my minds eye. I liked it better in the 1950s.


Mary’s Special Place

I worked for the Visiting Nurse Association as a Home Health Aide in Santa Cruz California back in 1991. I enjoyed helping the elderly, sick and crippled. I comforted them and attended to their simple needs of washing, food and medicine. I loved their stories they shared. Most of my patients were in their 90s and their lifetimes were filled with a richness that I yearned for. They shared their stores with me.

I will share a story of Mary. She was alone in her parents’ home. A beautiful Victorian home near the shores of Santa Cruz. Only one room was used for Mary. All the other rooms, which were many, were closed off. The stairs that went to her room were something out of the novel Gone with The Wind. And to the right of these majestic stairs was a giant Ballroom with a crystal chandelier where Mary told me her stories. In the room where she lived was a single bed and a small bathroom with bath. On the wall was a painting of a lovely sailing ship. The painting was of her father’s ship. It was a family ship. She told me that she came from a sea family. It was a merchant family business.

As the times changed her family and Mary took to living on the land. She was born and raised on a ship. She knew the ocean well. Standing on ground was difficult for her as a young lady. Eventually she married. Santa Cruz was a cowboy town at the time. She told me one night when her husband made his usual advantages towards her. She declined and fell asleep. He went off to the bars to sleep with a prostitute. He gave Mary gonorrhea and after that she couldn’t have any children. It took some time but she forgave him.

This is a poem about Mary and our walk to her special place. She told me that the wild animals that lived there sometimes would pop up in her toilet. Small rats,  squirrels and lizards would sometimes appear. It did not look all that bad to me. Yet, I can only imagine how it once was.

Mary, We Call You Near

We walked our way 
To the stream 
Down a short 
Wood’d green.
Marking our way 
Me with my little red hat 
Mary with her special cane 
To a faerie glen 
Perchance we glance 
To see one of ‘em- 
Of course, 
Mary Would be reciting 
A lit’bit of Kipling’s.
 
Arriving then 
I sat upon 
The concrete tunnel there- 
Mary stood proudly 
Above my stare
A lassie quite young 
That only time 
Be’a steal’n years from. 

A stream did run here 
Once very free 
Now the community has grown 
A lot of concrete 
Be surrounding 
The stream’s old home 
Controlling the flow 
Which was once surely
More freely flow’n-
Now the stream runs
Past wood’d green 
And homes to the ocean shore. 

Mary and I listen’d 
To the green trickling
Of the eternal water go 
I looked up 
to see Mary’s face a shine’n
Like the sun
Full of wisdom and love 
Lots of hopeful youth too.

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old Irish Drinking Song…

Sting like a jelly-fish

Today while walking into Ralph’s super market I saw the familiar old lady under yellow plastic. She was holding a white tissue to her red nose. She sat in her wheelchair at a prime target getting her ‘a little sympathy’. She got mine. I went into the store and purchased a $1.95 Starbucks house coffee medium. I am still amazed that a ‘cup of joe’ costs so much now. I remember when it was 25 cents.

“I like watching Noir films,” I said to the barista. “It is a wonder in those films that a ‘cup of joe’ only coast five pennies.  Twenty-five cents got you a cup of coffee, a ham sandwich and a piece of pie.”

The barista smiled at me as I took the coffee, put in some cream and sugar and then headed towards the old lady in a wheelchair.

“Here is a cup of coffee, you look cold.?!”

“I don’t drink coffee it is bad for you.”

“Really I thought it would warm you up. Coffee is not as bad for you as you may think.”

“I have never had any.” She looked down to her right at a dirty bag of oranges. “It is all right I had an orange…I am fine.”

I was a bit upset. I never thought that she would reject a cup of coffee on such a cold and rainy day.

“Lady sometimes beggars can’t be choosers?!”

I realized that I could not reason with the lady. She had her right to say no.  So, I walked on remembering what an old myth taught me. All about a woman’s psyche.

As Persephone went on her journey, she was advised not to give anything to those needy people who asked for something along the way. It was important for her to hold on to her strength and parts of herself that were precious.

I guess I failed the test today.Then that sorrow thread pulled in me. I call it the thread of sorrow.

I think that our current society does not embrace their share of sorrow. That is why we have so many drug addicts and alcoholics. A social epidemic.

We all need to hold on to or embrace our threads of sorrow. It can pull hard. It can be an echo that mocks. It can sting like a jelly-fish. When we run from our share of sorrow, ignore it, or get lost in our addictions hating it, it only manifests in our world as a monster shadow. Creating hate, chaos and terrible politicians. That is why I love Jazz because it speaks to the human heart and soul. It embraces it’s share of sorrow.


Massage as a profession or occupation

At about 8 o’clock PM.

The unpredictable Crazy days are far behind me and the routines of life have set in. Family and cats bring the little rituals of life which brings symmetry into the chaos of living such as; racing through traffic and surviving, watching current politics and not having a heart attack, and realizing that we all die. It is comforting to know that we live in a recycling universe, or so it seems. The point being within the light and darkness of life are the routines of everyday living that does bring joy.

Last night was a normal trash night. The difference in the routine is when husband said that there are two cars parked in our unmarked-marked trash can places. The usual sounds of annoyance on his part made me think about visiting with our new neighbors and asking them to move one of the cars so we might have a place for our trash cans.

The green sweat coat with 1976 on it pulled over my shoulders and I was off. I found myself in front of the neighbor’s house. Placing a knock knock and then pushing a ring ring upon their door and door button. Something expanded when I heard the ring ring.

It was a different kind of ring ring. It being a tasteful and alluring sound. The front door was half window and I could see in as one of my neighbors looked back at me. I mumbled something about the trash cans. The neighbor’s eyes widened open. Dressed in a light blue robe, looking confused my neighbor opened the door slightly. Having a face that was angular like something out of a Pablo Picasso paining such as Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 1907 during his cubism period; caught me off guard.

The new neighbors had radically changed the format and structure of the house since the last owner. As the door opened there was only a white hallway that met about half way through the house. Directly on the wall before me was a giant painting of what looked like a  Toulouse-Lautrec, Jane Avril Dancing painting. Yet this painting was one woman with her leg up and a giant red dress like a blooming flower. Once there were two rooms here one leading right and one left. One into a game room and the other into the kitchen. Not anymore. Straight ahead was a veil into another reality.

Our conversation was quick. I told the neighbor our problem. Nicely I was told that each of them had a  masseuse come out for a special treat message and that the cars were theirs. I was also told that both of them were almost finished.

Like clockwork each masseuse left in their two separate cars. I put out my two trash cans under the crescent moon of a very dark night. Feeling nicely surreal and wondering about our new neighbors?

 

Anthropomorphism

Here is my latest praying mantis caricature. A holiday greeting from long ago ancient times.

Attis brings Liberte’

At the darkness time of the year, the longest night, the winter solstice… here comes some ancient anthropomorphism… and praying mantis is here to make life so meaningful.


Ivy; It will be a good day !


(11-18-18)

Feet steeping around
In light purple tennis shoes
Morning crisper than it was
Cyprus tree tall as a tower
Dark green tall I upward gaze
Looking straight up
Noticing the ivy that embraces the climb
Wild element of the neighborhood
Sadly, gardeners often slash off all the blossoms
most times, yet not here
Half a block overtaken by tall Cyprus
And wild dark shiny green ivy
Light greets angled points and blossoms
Look up and stand still
Wild order
Sound of harmonic honey bees
Everywhere
Enthusiastic peace
The humming bees
As I gaze silently and listen
A dark crow lands on the tip-top
Upon towering Cyprus tree
Gloria told me once
“When the bird rests on the
Tip-top of the Guest house
At the Rosy Fellowship
It will be a good day.”

(11-24-18)

Today I knocked
An old gentleman
Opened his door
I thanked him for his
Climbing ivy
How he lets it blossom.

He told me he planned
To cut it down
Yet the branches were too thick
He will not be
Cutting the ivy down.

How happy we were
I told him how the
Sound of the bees
Is a religious experience
For me.
He said “thank you:
“For your kind words!”

I know the bees, humming birds
And song birds as yellow as the sun
Love the blossoming ivy.

My chapel is mutable
Here the goddess be
Humming and shining
For all who take the time
To hear, feel and see.

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The wild ivy is an ancient plant… let a part of your garden be wild…for her. 

` Hudley 11/18-24-18


scorn and unbelievable

Ritual is good. Songs bring in the seasons. In this dark time ‘song ritual’ help to ease the scorn and unbelievable with something sane and consistent.  The skins of my large white beans are shedding away as they boil in the pot. There are times when I feel like these large white beans.

Today during my heart focused breathing I was surprised to feel a pin point of joy dance upon my heart. Faces of love smiled before me and I was grateful. I cried for those released from this Earth, this planet.

What a mystery it all is. I talked to my oldest son. He said he was listening to a tape about the The Ten Hermetic Keys of Hermes Trismegistus.

The mental origin of the world and of man. 2 Corresponding harmonics. 3 Dynamics of alternation. 4 Bi-polarity and complementarity. 5 Cyclic repolarisation. 6 Cause and effect. 7 Gender. 8 The astrology of the Ogdoad. 9 The magic of the Ennead. 10 The alchemy of the Decad.

This caught me off guard. So I looked it up. I showed him my watercolor that contains this in a kind of alchemical way.


Watercolor Rendering by Hudley  (Azoth-1613-Basilius-Valentinus-Beatus-Georg-rebis)

I have this image hanging on the wall in the living room to remind me everyday. To show me that in this mystery of life, in all of this chaos and discord of life and death … light and darkness, there is a ritual that is beholding to us all.


Who’s Soul did Frankenstein’s monster have?

“‘…from that moment [he] declared everlasting war against the species, and more than all, against [Frankenstein] who had formed [him] and sent [him] forth to this insupportable misery.'” (Shelley, Frankenstein , Chapter 16, p. 121)
Once upon a time  I found the novel by Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, the new Prometheus.
I became friends with Frankenstein’s monster. He was not the film version because I looked to the quality of his brilliant soul.
I wrote a short story entitled, Who’s Soul did Frankenstein’s monster have? I put the story in a folder and took it with me wherever I went. I was inspired and torn by my insight. I felt I may have understood something no one else ever dared to wonder about.
This was back in the 1980’s. Then, as busy and as careless as a young punk might be, I lost the folder at a Mexican restaurant up-town Whittier, CA.
This loss haunted my nights. Back then backing-up-files was not so easy. This may have been before floppy disks? I did not make a copy of my short story of a monster’s revelations. I did keep the little doodles about the story which I will share today.
Maybe I did not misplace the folder. Maybe someone took it and still has it?
As one gets older time seems to bend backwards . It comes towards you so you can say hello again to those times of youthful inspiration.
I looked through all of my plastic boxes to find these images in my art closet. So glad the doodles were safe and not lost.
Victory Frankenstein  and the creature.