Happy May Day !!
A Grace for your pleasure, she is one of three that inspires the Muses of the arts…
In the early morning there is nothing like driving east on Sherman Way in the San Fernando Valley. Not too many drivers on the road the view of the Verdugo mountains are straight ahead. The Verdugos shine with a blue gray hue bringing to mind my youthful wild days. The street is lined with dark green pepper trees blocks of brilliant yellow mustard greens freely enhanced with miles of tall brown yellow wheat weeds What is still left of this wild valley. It is a cool windy day the will-o'-the-wisp goes round and round. Made up of different colored leaves memories that stir within me. Prehistoric blue gray mountain range wild memories inspire feelings I am getting younger not older. Coolness on clothes distance of windy gray sky I feel 13 again.
“The Greek poet Orpheus carried Willow branches as a symbol of the inspiration this sound gave.”
I pause outside as bee and lady bug fly around. Sweet is the nectar from lemon tree and lavender. Letting go of worries and desires that do not serve me now. An old friend, a song, comes to mind as my "leaves in the wind." Perfect are old recorded songs and the insect, flower and tree! Somehow as I pause in breathing, I am lost in this perfection. The recurring of pause of being, the repetition of listening to old songs the heartfelt listening and watching nature, Is my catalyst for artistic expression. Never to let us down !!
Last night’s dream set me on a journey of murder and fear. I left my car’s break off and it flew down the hill knocking down people, places, and things. Yet, somehow, I ended up in a cave / loft underground looking up on a reflection of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There were five or six of us looking up, out of the loft. A wood ladder hung upon the opening and straw was all around. I started to hum a song.
I did some research and found out that this song has an interesting history separate from Latin or the Catholic Church.
Franz Schubert Opus 52, 7 songs set to Walter Scott’s epic poem Lady of the Lake. (1825)
“My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee.” ― Walter Scott, The Lady of the Lake
Original text for Ellens dritter Gesang III is Scott/Stork Text before Lain text “Catholic Ave Maria” (Hail Mary).
“The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.” ― Walter Scott, Lady of the Lake
“Hymn to the Virgin” by Sir Walter Scott
“What is actually new in these interactions is the introduction of the financial aspect; if desired, the user has the possibility to monetize his expertise. Although, we can always share our experience for free, giving users the opportunity to have some financial compensation may enhance the potential of interactions by providing them credibility, recognizing their value and establishing a relationship of equals between the parties. Some people may well feel more at ease if, to complete their project, they have the possibility to ‘buy’ someone else’s know-how.” ~https://www.quora.com/What-do-you-consider-to-be-your-greatest-asset
It is ironic. My jewel, my opus magnum, and creations destroyed by the very same scene that gave me a voice. The punk scene gave me a voice. I self-taught myself or created myself in this void of rebellion. A new world. The ideologies, punk community where we helped each other. We confront the status quo and want to change things. My memories are something I share. It took me a long time but, a validation from financial gain is a necessity for a value of one’s art. What makes it valuable is relative. Time, attempt, joy, bliss, and humor. A joining in. I join into the community of the history of punk now. I took a vow in Jung’s terms.
I am confronted with violence, destruction and hate. What is my psyche doing now? How is the Cosmos responding to this? The fire of destruction. The depth of despair. The wheel of talk that becomes tiresome to others.
The band plays on…
I smell nothing today.
But the recurrence of something I cannot change.
I move forward as a phoenix
new possibilities new awareness
leaving the gutter behind me !
Walking into the small misty temple, I at once noticed the stained glass window. I sat on the tree stump. The image was enhanced by a crescent shape design and by a few candles flashing colorful red, gold and purple flames. I took to memory the message. I knew it was true.
My search to find the great Baubo, the Holy Baubo, had failed again. Yet, her new message was presented to me in the reflective glass widow image.
She was to do it. At the beginning. She had to defeat those evil bastards…
Prometheus Unbound, man is defined as “one harmonious soul of many a soul, whose nature is its own divine control.”~ The Selected Poetry and Prose of Shelley edited, with introduction, by Carlos Baker.
“… Poetry strengthens the faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man [imagination] in the same manner as exercise strengthens a limb.” ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley
“The secret of morals,” says the essayist, “Is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively…The great instrument of moral good is the imagination: and poetry administers to the effect [ moral good] by acting upon the cause [imagination].’ Poetry enlarges the circumstance of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts of ever new delight, which have the power of attracting and assimilating to their own nature all other thought.” ~ Shelley
Over thirty years ago
Finding a red rose
At a common thrift store
then, upon my wall
after, a gift to mother
upon her wall.
Now upon my wall, again
now I know
it means good magic
“Midsummer night upon the sword,
Knights and squires are standing guard,
In the grove knightly dance they tread
With torches and garlands of roses red”
~ Johannes Steenstrup, CHR The Medieval Popular Ballad, 1968
It is the direction and not the magnitude which is to be taken into consideration. ~Thomas Paine
Today May 17 2016 is when I am finally coming out with my first Journal. A 40-page journal. This journal is based on my memoirs entitled The Seminary of Praying Mantis, My Punkalullaby. A D.I.Y project which rides the wave of punk rock nostalgia. I will continue to come out with these journals until the original written book is complete. Since my publication of poetry books, and my work on New Wave Chicken ‘Zine (and the reforming of the Misfits), my libido has increased. The first journal will be for sale soon. Consider this a little complementary journal to go along with the BIG PUNK ROCK books out there. Linking hands with the underground story to give the reader a brighter picture of punk rock diversity. A new look at the Los Angeles punk rock scene. This journal is a behind the scenes story of punk rock. A wrench in the machinery kind of journal movement. Sorry no big beautiful pictures artfully done. Just a few words.
Honest and reflective…
Early Los Angeles Punk Rock Scene… 1979 -1989
Remember… To Be More Than A Witness…
Have you seen the suicide squirrels? Some crazy animals that run across the street. They have a big shadow going on in them as daredevils galore. Jerks hit and run and I stay to watch the detorsion dance of death. I always take time to bless ’em and put them in a bag after they die. I slow down in my car and honk and yell trying to save them too. A song by Stan Kenton called Painted Rhythm reminds me those wild beasts. They just don’t listen to me.
“Get out of the street !!”
They are damn independent, wild and organized animals… but they got a strange shadow side. A death wish.
Spring is so sweet today. The air honeyed with nectar and the birds are singing. Life can be heavenly but I never lose sight of the shadow. It is important to keep goodness and our shadows at check, or in balance, in our soul. You know the story the biggest light casts the biggest shadow.
Today I am impressed to hear the music of the wild thyme herb growing. Blossoms very small and delicate. It casts a shadow too and hangs best under one dark shadow this morning.